


The (Shipped) Gold Standard

by ThatsWildPatrick



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vikings, Animal Sacrifice, Arguments, Domestic Fluff, Drugged Sex, F/M, Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, Hallucinations, Historical Accuracy, Human Sacrifice, Humor, M/M, Modern dialouge, Multi, No angst tho, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Sasstrick, Smut, Some apperances may be very brief, You've been warned lol, but - Freeform, wait come back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-01-20 11:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 71,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12432174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatsWildPatrick/pseuds/ThatsWildPatrick
Summary: Patrick's heart froze in his chest, and he decided to try copy Kevin's valiant attempt at a glare. This motherfucker needed reminding; He needed to be reminded that he was a visitor , and visitors had to be fucking polite.The chuckles, the smiles, the grins- all of it was starting to really tick Patrick off; Who the fuck did this guy think he was?Brown eyes stared softly, yet deeply- and Patrick felt his nose twitch nervously. This was…weird, but whatever- these pagans had been nothing but weird since they'd arrived, so-"Him."





	1. Hide Your Kids, Hide Your Wife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SUCK AT SUMMARIES, BUT TRUST ME
> 
> Whoa, fic no. 7, let's hope you guys like this one. 'Cause I'm v excited. Like, too excited.
> 
> I've been kicking this idea around for the longest time, I swear, and I'm gonna set some stuff up from the get-go:
> 
> 1\. There's another language in this fic (Norweigan, to be specific), but I won't give translations because everything is gonna be from Patrick's pov. Basically, you'll be right there with him in not understanding what the hell they're talking about (unless you use google translate lol).
> 
> 2\. The dialogue, humor, and language is gonna be modern. I know it's not historically accurate, but forgive me, and believe me: Medieval English dialogue would be awful to read.
> 
> 3\. Apart from the speech, everything else is kept as historically viable as possible- I did A LOT of research, this one took forever, believe me lol.
> 
> 4\. You might realize what the cryptic votes were about hmmm,,,,
> 
> 5\. You're all amazing people, and I love every single one of you- If you take the time to read this, or comment, or any of it, just know it means the world to me, thank you so much.
> 
> Well, with that out of the way, enjoy! <3

 

"Your grace-"

 

"Fuck off."

 

The servant Patrick hadn't bothered to learn the name of winced a little, but Patrick only kept his eyes down as he tugged his boot up, nose wrinkling at the heaps of mud, starting from the sole and crawling up to under his knee.

 

This was his brother's fault. Plain and simple.

 

Patrick was stood in the courtyard, surrounded by swords, and mud, and _noise_ \- all because of his brother.

 

That stupid motherfucker spent his entire days swinging his sword around, and 'training'. It didn't look like fucking training to Patrick, no, his brother just looked like a total idiot.

His brother had dragged him out of bed that morning, his face plastered in a cheery grin that promised nothing but annoyance. Patrick had complained- specifically about how he was missing his lessons, Patrick had tried to hide- specifically in the servant's quarters, and Patrick had pleaded- but, their father had insisted. And _his_ word was final.

 

_Their father had insisted._

 

Those four words had ruined Patrick's life many, _many_ times.

 

Like that time their father had _insisted_ they learn how to ride horses. Patrick had almost broken a fucking bone- horses sucked, he fucking hated-

 

Patrick's eyes narrowed into a glare. Someone was stari- Oh for God's sake.

 

The servant was still there, fuck, weren't these people supposed to be obedient?

Patrick cocked his head up at the skinny, shrewd-looking man and squinted, hand tossing in a firm gesture. "What part of 'fuck off' did you not understand?"

 

The man's face was blank for a moment, before it twisted into something fake, and polite.

Patrick instantly rolled his eyes as the man opened his mouth to speak; Fake and polite, that had been on the face of every single person he'd ever met- ever since he was born.

Shit, he was pretty sure the midwife that had delivered him, she'd been wearing that stupid, polite smile.

 

"The order is from _your father_ , your grace."

 

Patrick could hold back his heavy groan, but he _could_ ignore the slight quirked eyebrow the servant gave him.

With a bad attitude clinging to every inch of him, Patrick pushed off of the wooden beam he'd been leaning on, and raised his brows at the man. "Does he need my brother too?"

 

The servant smiled, head tilting with a tiny nod. "That would be wise, your grace."

 

Patrick groaned a rough sigh, before lazily looking around for his brother.

 

His eyes stopped on hair that couldn't decide on being red or brown- that matched his own. Exactly. His brother was stronger than he was, broader, and just generally…better at stuff, but, Patrick was pretty sure that was just due to the years his brother had on him.

...But, Patrick really doubted that he'd magically get ripped and be good at fighting on his seventeenth birthday. Hell, maybe he just wasn't meant for that kind of life. Maybe he was meant to read books, and do…math. He was pretty okay at those things, he guessed.

 

Still, it would've been nice to be able to cut a bitch every now and then.

 

Cupping a hand on his mouth, Patrick's eyes stayed annoyed and lazy as he called out for his brother, in the least polite way possible.

 

"KEVIN- GET THE FUCK OVER HERE."

 

Patrick could tell his brother sighed, simply by he way his arms dropped, his shoulders fell, and by the way he glanced over his shoulder- face covered in amusement for a mere second before he paced over.

If Patrick had thought _he himself_ had been dirty, shit, Kevin was _filthy_ . Caked in mud all over, a blunt sword in hand, and looking five seconds away from catching some gross disease. And he wasn't gonna wash later, Patrick knew that; Fuck, his brother was _gross_ -

 

"Merefin," Kevin nodded at the servant, and Patrick's eyes widened a little that his brother had bothered to learn the name. Shit, he needed to start paying more attention. "What's going on?"

The servant's smile seemed more genuine towards Kevin, "Your father needs you both, your grace."

The older brother nodded solemnly, placing the practice sword in a rack that sat beside Patrick. "And where might our father be?"

 

"The great hall, your grace."

 

With the brightest, most charming smile Patrick had ever seen, Kevin clapped a silently stern hand on Patrick's shoulder. "We'll be on our way."

Patrick did _not_ appreciate being manhandled, but he decided to not cause a scene after all, and instead, paced beside Kevin, both sets of soles tracking through the mud.

 

 

As they ducked past a carriage that was being loaded with barrels, Patrick idly gazed around at the workers and horses- that were being fitted and readied for would what would no doubt be a long journey.

 

"...I didn't know his name was Merefin."

 

Kevin snorted, a broad, amused smile on his face, "He's worked here since _I_ was born, how could you not-" Patrick rolled his eyes, interjecting with as much sarcasm he could load into his tone. "Well, I'm _sorry_ I ju-"

"You are just, _unbelievable_ , sometimes, Patrick-" Kevin was still giggling like an idiot, and Patrick had to fight down the urge to sock him in the jaw. "Just- _shut up_ and walk."

Kevin's giggling was still audible, and Patrick took a long second to glower at him. " _What?_ " The older of the two gave a smart smile and patted his little brother's shoulder.

 

 

"Just shut up and walk, Patrick."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I've gathered you here today for, _grave_ , reasons."

 

Patrick stared at his father with lidded, dull eyes, not particularly thrilled about how the day had gone. One shitty thing could ruin the rest of the day for him, and after sword practice and some red splotches that were _definitely_ gonna bruise, Patrick wasn't feeling too peachy.

 

His mother and father sat at the main table, elevated on a step, and over-arched with wood, the whole room was well lit by the light that shone through the windows in the day, and lit by candles at night.

 

Patrick, along with his brother and sister- both older, and both better at their respective, _stuff_.

 

Megan- his sister, neatly dressed and hair braided even _more_ neatly, was better than he was at remembering town names, houses, and at being, _friendly_.

 

Patrick's parents, and later, his teachers, had always chastised him for being 'rude'. But, what was the alternative? Really?

Pulling fake smiles, unwanted questions, and pretending to give a shit about people? No, Patrick preferred _honesty_. And bluntness. And swearing- yeah okay, he understood where they were coming from.

 

 

Their father glanced between them, eyes stern and solid. "There is a threat on our shores."

Kevin's spine straightened, eyes narrowing attentively at something beyond their father, as though he already knew what he meant.

Megan's hands writhed where they sat neatly over each other, and her eyes glazed over in a similar, yet softer, kind of knowing.

 

But Patrick, for one, had no idea what the fuck was going on.

 

He wanted to ask, but before he could even open his mouth, their father was back on the case, voice as strong as ever.

"You may have heard of, the attacks, in- in Northumbria, and Wessex." He noticeably stifled a sigh, chest rising as he tilted his chin an effort to keep his voice steady. "The Northmen, are to blame for these- these, terrible, situations."

 

Patrick watched Kevin and Megan shift in the corner of his eye; Kevin seemed firm, hand twitching over where his sword hilt would be, whilst Megan seemed to shrink a little, escaping into her own little world as her mind wandered.

 

Patrick, for one, _still_ had no idea what the fuck was going on.

 

"Kent, is one of the richest kingdoms in Britain, and therefore-" Their father's eyes became darker than they'd already been, and their mother's hands folded in idle prayer. "We are a target. A large one."

 

Kevin's face was set in stony determination, and as a wave of confidence visibly washed over him, he tilted his chin with a hard jerk. "Should we prepare the army, father?"

 

"No, we shan't."

 

The oldest of the three parted his mouth to speak once again, and Patrick was sure his tone would've been anything but polite, judging from the furrowed brow and his shifting fingers. However, their father swiftly beat him to the punch.

 

"Because I have sued for peace."

 

"Father-" Kevin choked the word out, Megan's eyes shot wide, but Patrick only quirked an eyebrow.

 

Admittedly, he hadn't heard much about the 'Northmen'. Or, anything, at all. He really didn't know how they were getting invaded, and he hadn't even realized it; He was so out of the fucking loop it was scary.

 

"Father- father, we can't- they're- they're, _godless_ , we have to-"

 

" _I_ am king of Kent, Kevin." Patrick bit his tongue, trying not to smirk at his brother as the older man shrank back.

 

When their father reeled out the- 'I am the king' line, they always knew it was time to lay the fuck off.

 

Their father kept his eyes on his eldest son, "And while one day, you will be in my place- for now, you listen, watch, and _learn_."

Kevin was visibly chewing on the inside of his cheek, ears pricked, and hands curled into fists behind his back as their father kept speaking. "I have it on good authority that we cannot hope to win against them." Their mother's head bowed a little more, lips moving in silent prayer a little more frantically.

"Kent is wealthy, but we are a small kingdom." He stared pointedly at Kevin, as though trying to teach him an unspoken lesson. "We can't afford to squander our soldiers."

 

The moment Kevin's head bowed in a subtle nod, their father's eyes moved, re-taking their gentle glances between all three of his children.

"I have received messages, and advice, from the other kingdoms that have…" His face blanked with a tinge of repulsion, " _Dealt_ , with the Northmen."

 

Kevin's head tilted, eyes darker than before, Megan's eyes lit up in pure interest, and Patrick- still had a very vague idea of what the 'Northmen' actually were.

 

He assumed they were men.

 

From the north.

 

But he wasn't too sure what his father meant by their attacks.

 

That being said, his father was probably much more qualified and knowledgeable about this situation, seeing as Patrick had spent his days wondering around the castle for a good few months.

"East Anglia has dealt with a few, and the Northmen agreed to leave their lands after, payment." Megan's hand folded on the last word, but Patrick could only quirk an eyebrow around the room, searching for gazes and a fucking explanation as to why everyone looked so worried.

"They are known, to only accept," The king hid a sigh once more, eyes a little dull as he spoke in a tight tone. "Gold, land, or, women."

Both their mother and Megan made silent crosses, lips still moving in pleading prayers.

 

Kevin's head bobbed up in a second, "Father, you can't give them _land_ -"

 

"I don't plan to, Kevin." Their father, starting to look a little irritated at the string of constant irruptions. "I want them out. Kent- rather, _England_ , is no place for them."

 

A firm nod left Kevin, before a scoff and a high, indignant tone took its place. "How much gold are you giving them?"

 

This time, their father remained calm, voice cool and eyes cooler. "I will wait for them to name their price."

 

"And- and we're just gonna let them walk in?" Kevin threw up a hand, visibly thrumming with indignation. Patrick had half a mind to hiss at him to calm the hell down; Arguing with their father wasn't the _best_ idea.

 

"They could kill us from the inside out, they could _destroy_ us-"

 

"I am only allowing three inside."

 

"But-"

 

"And we _will_ have guards, Kevin."

 

The eldest boy shrunk back, face dropping as he slowly realized he'd wandered to far to, 'the line'.

 

"Do you think I'm really _that_ stupid?" Their father leant forwards, eyes squinting in a testing way. Patrick could hold back his amused grimace, trying to stifle a laugh at his brother's expense. "Do you really think I would leave _pagans_ unchecked? Do you think I'm an idiot?"

 

"N-No, father. I- I'm sorry." Kevin's mumble reply was enough to sate their father, because with a nod, he leant back into his chair. "I wanted to inform you, to prepare you. You all deserved to know."

 

His eyes moved to Megan.

 

"And, it grieves me to, to tell you that-" His Adam's apple bobbed noticeably, and Patrick noticed Megan had stopped praying; She stared up at her father with a blank, waiting look in her eyes, and from them, Patrick could just about gauge-

 

"If they refuse, or- want more, than gold," Their mother drew another cross over herself. "I will give them, Megan."

 

"Father, for-"  
  
Megan stayed silent as Kevin tried to argue, but once again, their father's word was final.

As soon as Kevin backed down, their father coaxed Megan's stare. "It pains me, don't think it doesn't. It's not easy- but- I can't let them attack our people."

His gaze moved to his sons, tone convincing at the first words, and reassuring at the last. "They can destroy us, but as long as I breathe, they will not harm our kingdom."

 

In a subconscious search of comfort, their father took their mother's outstretched hand, knuckles white and digits shaky; The hands showed just how scared he really was, but admittedly, Patrick was impressed by how steady he was right now.

 

If Patrick was king right now, he was pretty sure he'd be crying and/or on a boat to Francia- the kingdom could go screw itself.

 

Or, well, he'd like to think he was smart enough to run away.

 

In reality, he'd probably just…hide. A lot.

 

Shit, maybe he _would_ go to Francia, who knew, right?

 

"They'll be here tonight, so…" Their father nodded firmly, "I suggest you, ready, yourselves."

 

The three began to make a move to leave, but their father called out once more, reeling off an afterthought.

 

 

"For the good of Kent."

 

 

The words stayed with Patrick as they left the hall, they even stayed as he watched Megan stalk away to her quarters- hell, they were still in his head as Kevin moved back to the courtyard, taking to swinging his sword at a dummy with furious grunts.

 

Patrick stepped over to a beam, taking to leaning on it with a vacant stare out at the busy workers that kept their castle's system running 24/7.

 

He felt bad for Megan. Damn. Seriously. Sold off to the dreaded 'Northmen' like a cow, or a goat, or something.

 

For the good of the kingdom.

 

Yeah, Patrick knew it was to spare their people from being attacked and all, but still-

 

He sighed and shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face as he pushed away to go do something more productive than leaning on a beam all day.

 

Megan could deal with it. She was strong, she'd be _fine_.

 

Patrick nodded to himself, a little cheerier than before, and made a beeline to the library, where he planned to hide from Kevin's sword training for the rest of the day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"A furore Normannorum libera nos, Domine."

 

The bishop's voice was droning and flat as he reeled off the words with closed eyes and folded hands, booming them over the- now, completely full, great hall.

 

"From the fury of the Northmen deliver us, O Lord."

 

The gathered chimed back in perfect unity…that Patrick totally ruined with his awkward, unprepared stutters. "From the ful- _fury_ of the…Sout- _North_ men- _deliverus_ _O_ _Lord_."

 

Patrick had never been the most religious. Sue him.

 

Kevin spared him an amused smirk, and a nudged knee, but Patrick only shrugged back, playing as innocent it as he could.

 

Thick silence descended on the room, but it was only perfect for a few seconds. The king's voice cut across it, as smoothly a white knife through butter.

 

"Let them in."

 

There was a collective intake of breath as ten guards disappeared from the room, ducking through the huge, carved doors.

 

"What d'you think they look like?"

Megan's voice was quiet and tiny, and the question was fired at her two brothers, sat at the end of the table beside her.

Kevin shrugged, "Some monks said they have horns." Megan gasped in horror, but Patrick only furrowed his brow- not keen to believe his brother's dumb rumors. "Some said they're really tall, like-" Kevin stopped to raised his eyebrows and nod.

 

" _Really_ tall."

 

Kevin squinted for a moment, before chiming up with a nod. "Oh- and some-"

 

"Shut up."

 

Patrick's eyes were wide, and his hands were drawn into fists as the doors creaked.

There was a collective gasp just as the doors opened fully, being tugged open by two of the guards.

 

And there, between them all, were the 'Northmen'.

 

There were three of them, and one was definitely _not_ like the others.

 

Two were tall- _really_ tall, had light eyes, and had light hair; The left man's hair was braided- along with his…beard, weirdly enough.

And the one on the right's strands were cut short, and shaved at the sides- along with a huge fucking beard- And oh fuck, he had dark, drawings, on his face, what the fuck?

 

Patrick _would_ say he was starting to spot a trend, but the man that stood between them broke the set chain entirely.

 

He was short. _Really_ short, compared to the others. Still probably taller than Patrick, but just about fucking _everyone_ was. And he was dark all over; Dark hair, to dark eyes, to dark skin- he was an eclipse in the sheer light of the other two.

Short dark hair, shaved on the sides. Skin tinged with a shade that looked like, wood, or- something- whatever the fuck it was, Patrick had never seen it before. And last but not least:

 

A beard.

 

A fucking beard.

 

Sure, it was _short_ \- but-

 

Okay, cool- the beards were a common trend, good to know.

 

All three were dressed lightly, but Patrick couldn't help but notice their holsters and scabbards were empty; No swords, no daggers- no nothing. They were defenseless, and surrounded by enemies. Patrick found really fucking himself glad his father had thought ahead so well.

 

He still didn't like the idea of Northmen in the castle, but hell, his dad was king for a reason.

 

The king glanced over at his wife and at the bishop for a mere second, before steeling his gaze back on the three Northmen- who looked…amused.

 

Huh.

 

The shorter one was smiling bemusedly at the guards, an eyebrow quirked at their hands poised on their sword hilts, at their slightly shaking knees, at their jerky, odd movements.

The taller two were smirking too, although, their amusement was better hidden, blocked out with disdain.

 

"Who are you? And why have you come to Kent?"

 

...Patrick was pretty sure they knew the answers to those questions already. But, their father held steadfast, eyes stern as he waited for the silence to be broken by an answer.

 

The man in the middle took a cautious, almost teasing step forwards, head tilting lightly as he watched the king.

 

And, while Patrick wouldn't have expected him to be the, leader, of sorts- he seemed to be calling the shots.

 

When he did speak, the man's voice was steady, and warm, and- His English was broken as hell, but everyone had just seemed slightly surprised that he _could_ _even speak it_. They hadn't been expecting much, honestly.

 

"We are…" The short man grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners, before he raised his eyebrows with fake contemplation and an easy shrug. "' _Northmen_ '."

 

There was a collective littering of chattering, but at a few firm glances, all tongues were still, and all eyes were back on the Northmen- and the king. "And, your reason for being here?"

 

The pagan chuckled softly, almost as though he was amused by the questions. He glanced up at the king with a plain face and an obvious tone to his voice.

 

"Gold."

 

More chattering, more glares, more questions- Patrick was starting to see a pattern.

 

"I don't want you in my Kingdom." Their father's jaw shifted under his skin, "I would exile you all from Albion, would if I could."

The short man shrugged, lips curling into a sarcastic pout. "Too bad you can't."

 

There was a sharp intake of breath, harder mumbling, and as Patrick glanced over at his father- he could see a spark of fear in his eyes. The last thing they needed was to make a martyr out of these three Northmen- even Patrick, as clueless as he was, knew _that_.

 

"What do you want in exchange for leaving?" The king was eager to cut the exchange short, apparently. He leant forwards over the table, eyes firmer than before, but the pagan only chuckled.

The short man kept silent for a second, eyes holding a blank stare and mouth curled into a smirk. He finally broke it when he glanced over his shoulder.

 

"Hva tror dere, gutter?"

 

There was an uncomfortable wave of bristling over the hall at the foreign words, but as the guards glanced around with a crazed, terrified look in their eyes, the Northmen spoke plainly and easily- completely ignoring the chatters.

 

"Gull? Eller mer?" The short man had turned fully, shoulders shrugging lightly. The man with braided hair spoke first, voice low and as rough as bark. "Jeg sier presse for mer."

The short-haired man nodded, "Jeg er enig." The man smiled broadly, a hint of mischief Patrick didn't understand in his blue eyes. "Se hva han er villig til å gi deg."

 

Their leader nodded deeply, turning back to the main table with a grin and an amused mumble that was very obviously, to himself. "La oss se hva som skjer."

He cleared his throat and straightened up, shoulders pushing back formally and voice lilting with his accent. "What will you give us?"

 

The king twitched with the urge to glance at his advisors, but managed to fight it away, and testily kept his eyes on the pagan. "Two thousand pounds. Gold and silver. In weight."

 

The Northman hummed, eyes squinting and head cocking as though he was being offered nothing- or, _next_ to nothing.

Patrick glanced at his father; Hands shaking, eyes wide, Adam's apple bobbing steadily, and face paler than normal. He was panicking. And whenever the king panicked…it was never good.

 

"Land?"

 

The word was choked out, and Kevin made a grunt in the back of his throat, shooting pleading daggers at this father.

 

...But luckily, the pagan's nose wrinkled, and he quickly shook his head, words reeling off quickly. "Nei nei nei- I don't want your land."

 

He tilted his head, "It's uh- it's too… _gjørmete_ \- too- langt borte, uh-" The man shrugged and shook his head, but raised his eyebrows in a demand for more tributes.

The king was panicking now, and Patrick couldn't blame him. Shit, gold hadn't been enough? Silver- they didn't want it?

Mind no doubt paralyzing with fear, their father called out the next offer- and Patrick prayed, on his behalf, that it would sate the pagans.

 

"My daughter."

 

Their father nodded over at Megan, hand open in a steady gesture. The pagan stifled an amused smile, and stepped forwards.

 

The guards hands leapt to their swords, unsheathing them with sounds of scraping metal- before the Northman stopped, and raised his hands with bored eyes.

With a shaky nod, the king signaled for the swords to be put away- and they quickly were, under the deep glares from the taller Northmen.

 

The pagan huffed in amusement stepped forwards again- albeit, slowly and carefully this time. He hopped up onto the large wooden step that lifted the main table from the stone floors, and chuckled at the blank terror on a few faces- and at the determination to glare from others.

He raised his eyebrows at his empty scabbard, almost reminding the king that he couldn't really do anything. It didn't help, much, but despite the heavy stares, he moved towards Megan.

 

 

Leaning forwards, he peered at her from over the table, eyes blank and scanning. Megan looked frozen, eyes wide- but oddly enough, holding no anger or fear.

Patrick stared as the pagan huffed in amusement and moved, taking a long glance at the king and his wife for a moment, before shifting to Megan's other side.

 

The Northman moved to stand in front of Kevin.

 

Kevin glowered back darkly, but the pagan only smiled, amusement etched into his features. Patrick quirked an eyebrow; This guy was a little too _chill_ for what was going on right now.

He and his friends were defenseless, if he kept refusing- or, if he _tried_ something, his head would be on a spike by the end of the day.

 

The pagan huffed to himself, before moving over, to Patrick.

 

Patrick's heart froze in his chest, and he decided to try copy Kevin's valiant attempt at a glare. This motherfucker needed reminding; He needed to be reminded that he was a _visitor_ , and visitors had to be fucking _polite_.

The chuckles, the smiles, the grins- all of it was starting to really tick Patrick off; Who the fuck did this guy think he was?

 

Brown eyes stared softly, yet deeply- and Patrick felt his nose twitch nervously. This was…weird, but whatever- these pagans had been nothing _but_ weird since they'd arrived, so-

 

"Him."

 

There was a moment of shocked silence, but as Patrick's face blanked, everything burst back to life. Amidst, the crazed chattering, frantic glances, and hanging jaws, the pagan grinned, and hopped back over to his friends, retaking his old place.

 

"I- I'm afraid I didn't-" The king glanced around at this advisors, looking for an answer that wouldn't come from wide eyes and parted mouths. He shook his head in pure shock, "I- I-"

 

"I don't really want your daughter." The pagan shrugged, before smirking and pointing to Patrick. "Him."

 

"I don't- I don't understand, why-"

 

"No."

 

Patrick cut through his father's words, interrupting him for once in his life. He shook his head, a fiery ball taking the place of a lump of fear in his throat. "No. I am _not_ -"

 

"Patrick."

 

The king's stare was firm, and while it was composed, it still screamed 'Shut the fuck up'. Patrick shook his head, rising from his seat with a furrowed brow and a parted mouth. "No- fuck you- I'm not-"

 

"Patrick. Sit down."

 

"No- I'm not going with those things. Alright?" His voice was loud, stern, and harder than he'd ever used it before. "Why the fuck- No, send _Megan_ \- she's the girl here-"

 

"Hey, fuck you-"

 

"Shut up- you're a girl, it'd make sense they'd want you- what the fuck-"

 

The king rose from his seat, eyes firm and voice firmer, easily drowning out Patrick's. "I agree to your terms."

 

Patrick laughed incredulously, eyes wide and head still heading. "No no no-" He pointed at his father. "No." He pointed at the pagan. " _NO_."

 

"That is _not_ happening-" Patrick laughed and dragged a hand over his face, before dropping it and staring at the Northman with a fake pout. "Go hop back in your fucking boat and get back north." His nose twitched, and tilted his chin, adding an afterthought he was too proud of to hide.

 

" _Bitch_."

 

The room was deadly silent and blank as a sheet, but the smirk on the pagan's face, and the cool stare on the king's face, remained.

 

"We'll deliver everything to your ships. Sunrise."

 

The pagan nodded deeply, face solemn for once, but Patrick made an indignant noise in the back of his throat and quickly shook his head. "No- this isn't happening. Nah, sorry, but- You can't just-"

 

"You might have to tie him up?" The pagan's eyebrow was quirked, and that stupid fucking smirk was weaving back onto his face again.

 

The king's face blank and unamused, but his voice was strong and fierce. "Know this, pagan." His eyes narrowed, "Every day that my son lives in misery, is one you and _your_ _kind_ will never set foot in Kent."

 

The pagan smirked, but nodded, eyebrows raised and wordless. The king only nodded to the guards- who quickly moved to steer the Northmen out of the room.

And as they disappeared through the doors, Patrick could only try one more shout- in a short burst of fury and desperation.

 

 

"BETTER STAY ON THAT SIDE OF THE SEA, MOTHERFUCKER."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick glared at his father.

 

He knew the Northmen were right there, but Patrick didn't stop glaring at his father.

 

' _Their father had insisted_ ' and ' _The king's word is final_ ' had never really ruined his life more than they had right now, and Patrick wished there wasn't rope binding his hands; He'd punch the fucking king in his fucking stupid face he didn't fucking care anymore-

 

A shove sent him forwards, and his glare broke as he stifled a yelp.

 

Patrick glared over his shoulder, eyes narrowed at the guard that had no doubt pushed him. Any other situation, any other day, and Patrick could've ordered his head cut off.

His head moved back towards the sight in front of him. Shit. Today wasn't one of those days, and Patrick missed them already.

 

There were more of them, and they were… _scary_ , to put it lightly.

 

They weren't all tall and blonde either- okay, a good amount were, but there were also brown and red strands interrupting the flow.

 

Patrick's eyes moved down.

 

They had weapons now.

 

Fantastic.

 

The darker pagan from the day before took a step forwards, and nodded.

Three tall Northmen- two of which Patrick recognized from the other day, surged forwards, two easily lifting the gigantic chest, brimming with gold and silver, whilst the other grabbed Patrick by the arm.

 

He really _did_ try to dig his heels into the sand. He really did- but the pagan didn't even flinch, and effortlessly dragged him over to one of the ships.

Patrick grunted and struggled as another moved to help, both tying him to the base of the mast. He jerked and tried to kick, but the blows were easily avoided and- _laughed at_ , _motherfucking_ -

 

"Thank you for your cooperation."

 

Patrick craned his neck to see the shore, shuffling onto his feet with a steady thrum of determination in his chest. Tilting his chin up, Patrick spotted the darker Northman on the shore, talking to the king in a jovial voice that Patrick knew his father _wouldn't_ appreciate.

And then, with the heaviest sarcasm Patrick had ever heard, the pagan bowed with a broad, mocking grin.

 

"Your _majesty_."

 

Chuckles rippled through all the Northmen, and their leader turned on his heel, nodding a sign Patrick didn't understand at the others. "Til skipene."

There were nods, and chimes of something that sounded like, 'Ja', before the darker pagan set his sights on Patrick, and stalked towards the boat- others quickly following his lead.

As they hopped into the boat, they all began deftly moving things around, seemingly preparing the ship to actually _move_.

 

The pagan, however, only smirked at him, before moving to the figurehead, that was carved like a snake- or a…Patrick wasn't sure what it was, actually. He'd never seen anything like it.

 

He shifted against the ropes, digging his soles into the wood as best he could, glaring back at his family and half of the castle staff with a dark stare.  
  
The ship jolted to life with a clean move, and before Patrick knew it, the sound of the ocean parting under the ship was filling his ears, and his family- and the castle, were getting smaller and smaller.

But then, from the quickly fading coast, there came a shout Patrick heard all too clearly.

 

 

"IT'S FOR THE GOOD OF KENT, PATRICK."

 

 

Patrick gaped. That was his brother's voice. Patrick knew it too fucking well-

He choked on his words for a second, Adam's apple bobbing and eyelids fluttering in nothing but _raw irritation_ \- before he gaped, and gave the loudest screamed shout he possibly could.

 

 

 

"…ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?"

 

 

 

 


	2. What Would Jesus Do?

 

Patrick's eyes hurt.

 

From glaring, probably- but the seawater landing over him in mists wasn't doing any favors, either.

But Patrick was mad. And anger was the best source of determination, from experience.

 

Patrick had been glaring at pagans for what felt like weeks, but he'd finally given up, finally closing them after a spray of saltwater had landed _directly_ in his pupils, making him yell and writhe- whilst being laughed at by the Northmen. Assholes.

And, while Patrick's eyes were closed, he'd made sure to keep an angry expression on his face; Brows pulled down, mouth set straight, and jaw clenched under his skin- Patrick wasn't letting up.

 

He'd been on this boat for far too long. He was still tied up; Wrists, chest and stomach bound to the base of the mast.

He'd seen sunsets and sunrises come and go, he'd watched the sun move to make way for the sun, and he'd seen the sun retreat for the moon. They looked bigger out here, brighter, too; It was nothing like watching them through his bedroom window back at the castle, over the glow of torches and candles.

 

And yet, despite all the wonder going on above him, Patrick's eyes were closed.

 

In order to make sure he wouldn't starve, the pagans would occasionally toss him bread and water- which at first, he'd refused...And then he'd felt like he was starving to death on the second day- so he'd accepted. Begrudgingly. And with a glare.

 

A few had launched sarcastic questions he didn't understand his way, but Patrick had diligently glared in their vague direction, and had kept his mouth successfully sealed.

 

Okay, maybe not completely true- but- okay fine, he'd called a few ' _Fucking idiots_ ', but it had been one time thing.

 

Or, maybe a ten time thing.

 

_Whatever_. They didn't seem to understand it, anyway.

 

Today was colder than it'd ever been before. And, oddly enough, during the first few times Patrick had actually hazarded his eyes open, he hadn't seen the sky.

The boat was covered in fabric, and he supposed it was meant to shield them from the rain or whatever, but something about an enclosed space, and his current situation, had left him tensed up the entire day. Or, what he assumed was a day; He couldn't see the sun, so guesswork was his best friend right now.

 

"Hei." Patrick felt something nudge his leg, but he kept his eyes closed, lip twitching in irritation. Another nudge came, harder than before, but still gentle as it fired into his thigh. "Hei, våkne opp."

 

Patrick inhaled.

 

Patrick exhaled.

 

And, with a hard glare from the get-go, he opened his eyes. The first thing he saw through a blurry gaze were boots, then legs, and finally he glanced upwards fully- and immediately scowled.

 

_That_ pagan. _That_ pagan in particular. _That_ pagan had ruined his fucking life.

 

He crouched down, eyes twitching into a squint every now and then as he watched Patrick carefully. Patrick really wished his hands were free; If they were, he'd like to imagine he'd throw that motherfucker over the edge of the boat and drown him in the sea. Or punch him to death. Either would work.

 

"Are you- kald?" Patrick furrowed his brow, head pulling back, but the Northman quickly clicked his tongue and shook his head at himself, "Nei- uh, ka- _cold_?"

 

Patrick squinted, eyes full of nothing but mistrust. He steeled himself through the cold to try a deadpan answer, but just as his mouth parted to speak, a violent shiver attacked him all over. His teeth clattered, his frame shook, and the pagan huffed in amusement at the obvious show of freezing. Fuck his body man; It'd betrayed him, motherfucker.

As Patrick ducked his head petulantly, growling and chastising himself, the pagan moved away. The moment Patrick glanced up towards him, a heap of fabric hit him in the face, landing with a grunt from him.

He shifted, freeing his head from the- blanket, it was a blanket, okay, that made sense, and squinted at the pagan as he and a few others moved to fidget with something Patrick couldn't see on the sides of the boat.

 

His gaze dropped down to the blanket, and with a subtle glance to make sure the pagan wasn't watching him, Patrick pulled it over him, exhaling quietly and eyelids fluttering in relief at the slight warmth.

He didn't know where they were, but he'd certainly never been this close before. He assumed they were going back 'north', wherever that was, but Patrick wasn't really sure what to expect.

 

The most north he'd ever been was Northumbria, during that one time his family had gone to visit king Aelle's.

 

Northumbria had been cold- not _this_ cold however, but still worse than he'd ever felt it in Kent. But despite that, it'd been green, and lush, and lively; Brimming with farms and castles, and the roads had been covered in travelers.

That was the most north Patrick had ever been, but he wasn't sure what to expect of _the_ 'north'.

He wasn't really sure at which point green grass and rich soil turned into snow and ice. And, now that he looked around a little more, he noticed how none of the pagans were shivering.

They were dressed lightly, linen, cloth, leather- but, none of them were cowering under blankets, or trembling with shivers. No clacking teeth, no hands rubbing together for warmth…No, they looked perfectly fine. Inhuman. Creepily inhuman.

Patrick's brow was furrowed at them when the cloth dropped from over the boat, quickly being caught by a few of them before it became an issue.

And, as it dragged away, Patrick's breath stopped still in his lungs.

 

That was _nothing_ , like Northumbria.

 

In the center of everything, a mountain stabbed upwards into the clear blue sky, it's proud point swimming in misty white clouds.

The prideful stone itself was grey and ridged, but covered in smatterings of green that could only be, moss, or- grass.

 

Patrick had never seen a mountain like that, fuck, the most he'd seen were the white cliffs of Dover, but that was…nothing, compared to- to _that_.

He straightened up, not caring as the mast pressed into his spine, and only craning his neck to catch more of it.

 

The mountains kept rising from the land as far as the eye could see, their hard, grey points and their green grass blocking the horizon from view.

 

And holy shit- the _water_.

 

It was the brightest colour Patrick had ever seen, it almost looked like the paint the monks made from azurite. It was stuck on the edges of blue and green, but- bright, and _alive_.

The ships were the only thing that disturbed it, but even they cut through it sharply, leaving the water at peace mere moments later.

On the sides, at at the foot of the largest mountain, sat nothing but ridges, rolls, and hills of green- but it wasn't a green Patrick had really ever seen, other than on paper or in gemstone.

It wasn't like the farmland green in Northumbria, and it wasn't like the field green in Kent. It was deeper, and brighter, and somehow, looked _fake_.

 

But, as Patrick squinted further, he realized there was no way the view could be a mockery.

Figures moved up and down the hills, and Patrick could spot wooden houses littered all over the place. Although, as the ships came into view, distant yells and calls could be heard, and Patrick could spot more than one figure stopping to watch them approach.

Everything blurred a little due to distance, and also due to the fact that Patrick had never had the best eyesight, but before he knew it, the pagan was back in front of him, arms crossed loosely and a smile on his face.

Patrick's wide-eyed wonder fell back into blank irritation, brow furrowing and lip twitching as the pagan crouched down again.

 

"What's your name?"

 

Patrick squinted and tilted his chin defiantly. The Northman smiled, a little too cheerily for what he was responding to. Taking the smile as a challenge, Patrick scrunched his face up a little harder, but to his horrible, _horrible_ dismay-

 

"Åh mine guder," The pagan pinched his cheek, and deftly avoided Patrick's kick to the shin. "Du er bare _nydelig_." He stood again, still chuckling down at the red faced boy- still kicking, still mad.

Truthfully, Patrick hadn't understood the words, but the tone and the smile that they'd come paired with was enough to make him growl.

 

"So, I'll ask you again." The pagan nodded and leaned back on the boat's edge, hands curled around the wooden edges between the rounded, brightly painted shields. "What's your name?"

 

Patrick was a little surprised he didn't remember; His father, his brother- they'd both said his name a few times but-

The pagan's brow was raised, and Patrick could only sigh; He wasn't getting out of this one, the guy would just keep on asking.

 

"Patrick."

 

The pagan hummed with interest, nodding subtly before he chimed up again. "What's your house?"

Patrick couldn't help his quiet scoff, nor the incredulous shake of his head, "What?"

The Northman shrugged lightly, face soft and unassuming as he folded his arms. "You're uh- kongelig?" Patrick scoffed, but the pagan only chuckled, and clarified his point with a cool demeanour. "Your father was a king?"

 

" _Is_ , a king." Patrick's mouth was curled into a scowl as he answered, hands twisting against his binds. Despite his situation, Patrick was feeling brave; Anger tended to do that to him, and after being shipped off with pagans, the small boy had anger to spare. "You'd do well to remember that, you fucking _heathen_."

 

The pagan only grinned, the corner's of his eyes crinkling and his nose wrinkling as he leaned forwards. "What's your house, engelskmann?"

 

"Why do you care? It's not like you'd know it, anyway. Do you even have-"

 

The Northman rolled his eyes, but the bemused smirk on his mouth remained, and Patrick couldn't help but glare at it.

"So, do you want to know my name?" The pagan smirked, head cocking to the side. "Or would you prefer to keep calling me, 'heathen'?"

Patrick curled his lip, despite the peaked interest at learning the Northman's name. He wasn't sure what to expect, he hadn't heard any of their names so far. He was expecting something stupid. Something really dumb and unpronounceable-

 

The pagan leant back, pressing into the edge of the ship as he kept his eyes trained on Patrick- who tilted his chin in response.

These guys stared weird. Their gazes were long, and focused, and deep; Like they were looking past his skin, into his bones and soul- Patrick felt a shudder crawl over his spine like a spider, fuck, he didn't like it one fucking bit.

 

"I'm Pétr." He squinted and nodded his head to the side, voice chiming out again in an afterthought. "Pétrson. House Ven-"

 

"That's not a name."

 

The pagan raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk growing on his face at the dull stare on Patrick's. The boy shrugged, eyes locked and serious. "That's not a real name- I'm not calling you that-"

 

"How isn't it a real name-"

 

"Because it's not, it's not a-"

 

"Just because it's not _English_ doesn't mean-"

 

"No. I'm not calling you that." Patrick put his foot down. Figuratively. And glared at the pagan- who in turn, only looked a little confused; Brow furrowed, mouth twisted, and arms crossed loosely.

He shrugged lightly, with no real anger or irritation. "Are you just going to keep calling me 'heathen', then?"

 

Patrick squinted for a second, before a brilliant idea as bright as the water crossed his mind. A slow smile split onto his face as he stared blankly at the wood of the ship, before looking back up at the pagan, his words having no intention to do anything but annoy.

 

"Peter."

 

The pagan's face fell a little, more in confusion than anything. "What?"

 

"Peter." Patrick gave a sarcastically sweet smile, fully relishing in the blank stare on the pagan's face. "Like Saint Peter. _The_ _Apostle_."

 

A flash landed in brown eyes, and the Northman groaned out deeply as realization hit him. "Odin bevare meg- dumme kristne-" He paced away, and Patrick was left shouting words that made the pagan roll his eyes in strings.

 

"ORIGINAL NAME SIMEON- DISCIPLE OF _JESUS CHRIST_ \- THE FIRST POPE OF THE HOLY ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH, MOTHERFUCKER-"

 

Patrick burst into a proud, delirious laugh, head thudding back into the mast as the pagan squinted at him, full of nothing but discomfort.

 

Oh god, _Peter_ \- he was definitely sticking to that one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was cold, people were looking at him funny, and he was being manhandled- this was shaping up to be the worst day in a long time.

 

Patrick distracted himself from the masses of crowds greeting those who had returned, by looking around. Okay, maybe it wasn't a great time for sightseeing, but- Patrick was being pulled forwards by the rope around his _neck_ \- yes, around his _neck_. He was gonna make that fucking heathen pay for this.

 

The houses were wooden, excellently carved, and somehow, their roofs were covered in live grass. There were barrels, shields, swords- and all manner of things that definitely shouldn't have been lying around, leaning against houses.

There were wooden large pens, sat between houses and dirt road. Everything from chickens, to pigs to goats, all hopped around idly, not particularly bothered by _how fucking cold it was_.

Patrick tried to contain his shivers as his sights tried to rise to the proud mountain he'd see earlier- but they stopped, just at the base, where another impressive spectacle stood.

 

It was a building unlike Patrick had ever seen before.

 

It was tall- so tall, birds flew around its points and sat on its edges, and rose in layers of wooden slats and stone tile roofs. The tips and edges were marked by spikes, and carvings of a type of animal Patrick had never really seen before, and the entire thing looked like the cathedrals back home, only, less stony, and less intricate.

Somehow, it impressed Patrick more than the mountain had, and his eyes were so stuck on the building, he only managed a quick glance at the dizzying height of the stone, before being pulled inside the wooden, cathedral- for lack of a better word.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flames. Flames were the first thing Patrick saw.

 

Hanging sconces tied to the walls held them safely, and they were the only sources of light in the entire place- considering the lack of windows Patrick was just now noticing.

There were beams everywhere too. Angled like triangles, carved, and smooth, they were soundly placed, and no doubt, kept the whole thing standing proudly.  
The floors were wooden too, although, Patrick struggled to see it beneath the rows of tables and benches- the latter covered in what looked like animal skins.  
And in the middle of it all, was the only thing Patrick actually wanted to be near right now.

The fire.

It was crackling orange and tamely- yet warmly, in the center of everything, throwing much-needed heat all over the room.

With a subconscious whine in the back of his throat, Patrick tried to move towards it- only to be held back by the hand around his arm.

The boy scowled, glaring at the man who had been one to fasten him to the mast in the first place. He didn't seem to care however, and soon enough, someone called him over, and he promptly dropped Patrick's arm and surged away.

 

Footsteps made Patrick glance over his shoulder, spotting the other Northmen pacing inside, carrying chests and all kinds of- wait, shit- that was a gold crucifix.

Patrick furrowed his brow and stared with a parted mouth as things he definitely recognized as holy were tossed to the ground, carelessly thrown into a heap that was collecting under a step in the wood- on which sat a chair, once again, strewn with animal skins.

 

Patrick winced every time something was thrown down. Shit, those were holy- and, _sacred_. Sure, Patrick had never been the most pious, but- but those belonged to God- and, fuck, they were stealing from _God_ , how much lower could they get?

 

As more and more people swarmed inside, a realization struck Patrick like a lightning bolt. Nobody was watching him.

He wasn't been watched, or, secured, or- oh shit. A slow grin spread on Patrick's face as he twisted out of the ropes around his wrists and neck with a grunt, tossing them to the floor, before quietly creeping back.

He just had to keep his head down, and maybe, just maybe- Patrick carefully shifted past people, but he kept it quick too, as a small spark of desperation urged him to get away.

 

And then, he was out of the carved doors.

 

Patrick took a long, shaky breath, and steeled his heart at the masses of people. He quickly hopped down the steps, and set to pacing through dirt road- making a beeline for…for…well, he wasn't sure for _what_ , but all he knew was that he was getting away from _the_ pagan- and that was all that mattered.

 

"Patrick?"

 

Oh fuck.

  
Patrick almost stamped in frustration, but he refrained and only dug his nails into his palms as he turned slowly.

 

The pagan was stood there, frame loose and not particularly worried or angry at Patrick's attempted escape.

 

The younger of the two laughed nervously, frame tense and gaze awkward as he couldn't quite bring himself to look away from aloof brown eyes. "H-Hey. What's uh…What's up?"

The pagan raised his eyebrows, "Uh…nothing, but, what are you doing? Exactly?" Patrick cleared his throat anxiously. "I was just uh- fresh air, y'know? I just- I thought- like, cool mountain, and-" As Patrick ranted and rambled on, the pagan would give tiny nods and very obviously sarcastic 'uh huh's, and hums of faux interest.

 

"Are you sure you weren't running away?"

 

Patrick froze, gaping like a fish for a second, before pursing his mouth and shaking his head frantically. "Uh- uh- no, _no_. I w-wasn't-"

"You're an awful liar, you know." Patrick gulped deeply as the pagan took a step towards him, eyes raking over him, arms folded and stare lidded bemusedly. "I-I- I swear-"

"Listen to me, _Patrick_." He drew out the name, letting the 'k' click on his tongue with a grin. Oh shit, Patrick was gonna die. This was it. This guy was gonna stab him in the gut for running away, oh god-

 

"You can leave if you want."

 

Patrick…hadn't been expecting that, to be honest.

The pagan crossed his arms a little tighter and shrugged, giving Patrick a lazy smile and lidded eyes. "But- _ah_ \- I should warn you," He took another step forwards, and Patrick felt his heart beating in his chest like a blacksmith's hammer on an anvil.

The Northman motioned his head around the houses and stores, raising his eyebrows at bunches of passing people- all casting Patrick passing, furrowed stares.

 

"People can be a little…zealous."

 

Patrick gulped.

 

"And you practically, _stink_ , of Christian, so…"

 

Patrick fought back the whimper trying to leave his throat, swallowing it down and taking his turn to furrow his brow at the pagan. "Thank you for the warning." His voice was tighter, and more on the edge breaking than he'd of liked it to be, but it got the point across, he supposed.

The Northman's lips twitched into a broader smile, and he nodded, taking a step back and turning on his heel. He took a few steps, before stopping dead in the dirt- and sending Patrick's terrified heart into overdrive.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he turned, smile still prevalent on his mouth.

 

"The trolls smell Christian blood."

 

What.

 

"So, I suggest you stay out of the trees."

 

Wait.

 

"For _your_ sake, engelskmann."

 

With the smile still stuck on his face, the pagan turned and paced back towards the stave building, leaving Patrick on the dirt road- surrounded by stares and a land he couldn't hope to know.

Patrick stood, rooted in silence for a good few minutes and eyes blank as he watched people move past.

And, when words _did_ finally leave him, they were lagged, broken, and trembling- effectively reducing him to looking like a little kid.

 

 

"What's _a_ _troll_?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick trudged into the hall with quiet footsteps, all as he tried not drawing attention to himself.

He ducked towards the wall, pressed his back against it and hunching his shoulders, trying to shrink as much as possible. Some glances were sent his way, but as a figure moved to the head of the room, pacing to a stop in front of the chair, all eyes moved, and all voices fell silent.

 

"Mine venner,"

 

It was _the_ pagan. Okay. Weird, but- Patrick's eyes widened softly. Okay, from his tone and his stance, he'd assumed he was a leader of some kind back in Kent, but-

 

"Raidene i Essex var vellykkede."

 

There was a loud, roaring cheer from the crowds gathered in the hall, and Patrick jumped at them, hands twitching to his ears for a moment, before he dragged them down as the sounds died- urged to the grave by the pagan's voice.

"Og Kent har betalt oss pent." His voice was loud, and firm, and, it _somehow_ , reminded Patrick of the voices he'd heard from kings in the past. Only, it was… _more_. Everyone's, from Aelle's, to Ecbert's, to his own father's- it was that same strength, that same authority- and, if anything, there was only _more_ of it from the pagan.

And, for some fucking reason, his skin had decided to prickle with goosebumps, and his spine wouldn't stop shuddering either-

 

"Men, de har ikke sett den siste av oss."

 

Cheers always followed his words, loud, raucous, but loyal and fierce- and it made Patrick's brow furrow deeply.  
Okay, so, it was obvious the pagan had…some, kind of power here, but- was it _normal_ , to just, interrupt higher-ups over here?

 

"Men," He hung on the word, casting a firm gaze over the crowds, before glancing over his shoulder at the few behind him. "det er for en annen gang."

 

"For nå," The pagan glanced back to another man, red-bearded, and everything from the side of his head, to his fingers was embedded with bright ink- the likes which Patrick could only recognize from pages in rich bibles. "Sortere det."

 

The chattering burst out again, and as Patrick heard the sounds of metal clanging and the telltale tones of counting, the pagan surged through the crowd, making a beeline for the doors.

When he saw Patrick, he didn't stop, only slowed. He took his time to give Patrick a bemused smile, and a graze of his eyes, before he ducked outside without a word.

Patrick's words stopped in his throat, but he found himself following- but not without a nervous glance back at the crowded hall. It was anarchy, compared to Kent. They all stood, lounged on the benches, leaned on the tables- no, in civilized countries, people _sat_. Neatly. In rows.

 

Patrick sighed and shook his head. Well, he wasn't in a civilized country anymore, he supposed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When he did finally reach the dirt road again, he found himself lagging something like a meter behind the pagan. He followed, through flatland, up hills, and past trickling streams and rivers, all while keeping his mouth shut, and his brow furrowed.

 

While he hated to admit it, _that motherfucker that had ruined his fucking life_ , was his only lifeline, right now.

 

He didn't know anyone else, nobody else seemed to speak English, and well, Patrick couldn't ever hope to steal and steer a boat home. He regretted not paying more attention in his lessons-

 

"You didn't want to meet the trolls then?"

 

The pagan kept his head forwards as he spoke, but Patrick could practically hear the smirked grin behind the words. He wrinkled his nose, but yelped quietly as he stumbled over a root that jutted out of the earth.

The Northman didn't glance back, thankfully, and Patrick quickly straightened up and played it off with a clear of his throat. "No."

"Ah, too bad. They must be hungry." Patrick gulped nervously. A soft chuckle punctuated the words, just before the pagan turned to glance over his shoulder, keeping his oddly focused stare on Patrick as he paced forwards, easily avoiding the stones and sticks that would've totally made Patrick fall on his face.

 

"What do you think of Lofoten so far?"

 

Patrick blinked oddly, brow furrowing on instinct at this point. His brow ached from the constant dips, but he held fast and kept it low as he answered cautiously. "Lofoten. Is that was this country's called?"

The Northman chuckled softly and shook his head, "No." He slowed in his graceful steps, letting the younger of the two catch up through uncoordinated stumbles. "The country, is Norway." He kept his eyes trained on Patrick's, "Lofoten is _this_ place."

Patrick raised an eyebrow, trying to hide any admiration he had for the heathen land. "It's okay." With a stifled grin, the pagan nodded with a raised brow, making a noise of fake acceptance, as though he could feel Patrick was lying.

 

Patrick didn't like that. Not one bit.

 

The pagan kept his silence as they kept pacing forwards, and Patrick gladly held his tongue too, following him quietly and just focusing on not tripping over branches.

Through his grunts, tuts, and hisses, Patrick could feel the pulsing future bruises on his shins, but he ignored them and looked up when he heard the pagan's steps get further away again.

 

It was the coast, but- different.

 

The sea was the same, brilliant colour it had been before, but this time, it wasn't disturbed by docks and ports; No, now, there were only a few, small boats on the pale sand. It was all edged off by more trees and more mountains however, all leading off through winding paths that faded sand into dirt.

His gaze moved left and his footsteps picked up again, glancing around wearily. As soon as he breached through the tree flanked path, and finally came to the clearing, he spotted the pagan once again.

 

A house, a good, but ultimately short distance away. It was like the ones in the town, all wooden slats and curved roof, and a small spread of land around it was blocked off by tall, thin, thatched fence.

Patrick's steps faltered as he stared at it, watching the Northman duck through the gate.

 

He wasn't too sure what he was doing. He'd started following, for some reason, but- he truly wasn't sure what he was supposed to do.

Patrick still had no fucking idea why he was here; Now, Megan being here- that would've made sense. But- Fuck, Patrick just didn't know anymore, he just missed home.  
He was scared, and- and it was so weird here, and he was surrounded by nothing but people he'd never seen before- and-

His shoulders slumped down, defeated. His eyes dropped to the sand, and he bit his tongue harshly, scolding any tears his eyes might've been thinking about escaping. It was okay. He could get through this. This was for his family. For his home. It was all gonna be fine-

 

"Patrick?"

 

Patrick's head bobbed up in a split second, wide eyes finding the pagan instantly.

He was leaning out from the side of the gate, brow furrowed and head ducked forwards. "Are you okay?"

The younger of the two gulped, and wrinkled his nose, trying to chase away the low misery in his stomach. "Yeah. Fine."

He could hear the amused chuckle from the pagan, even despite the distance, and his face fell into a scoff as he paced forwards, glaring at the sand, rather than watching the Northman watch him.

 

By the time he'd reached the gate, the pagan was still leaning on the gate, grin lazy and broad, and arms crossed loosely. Patrick inhaled and exhaled deeply, before glaring up at him with a squint. " _What_?"

The pagan tried to play innocent, mouth pulling straight, brow raising and head shaking as he turned on his heel, and nodded Patrick through.

Patrick took one look at the house, and sighed.

 

 

This day wasn't getting any better.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first positive of the day: It was warmer inside.

 

Sure, it'd been fucking freezing at first, a desolate wasteland of wooden beams, stone floor, cold animal skins, and curtains that moved softly, showing off invisible breezes that weaved through the house.

The pagan, however, had quickly moved to the fire pit in the center of everything, and had- at this point, managed to cure a fire that gave off heat like no tomorrow.

 

Patrick was still worried about an open fire in a wooden building, but whatever, if the pagans wanted to burn their houses down, that was their business.

 

He'd been sat on a bench awkwardly for what felt like a good half hour, idly watching the Northman pace around his house, ducking into a few doors, looking around- seemingly checking for changes, before finally nodding and pacing over to a bench.

Opposite Patrick, across the fire, the pagan sat down and unsheathed his axe- making Patrick's heart stop for a moment, before fishing a rag from his pocket.

He glanced up at Patrick, laying the axe across a thigh and taking to scrub at…suspicious, dried dark marks on the blade.

 

"So, what's wrong with you?"

 

An indignant scoff left Patrick immediately. Shit, this guy had less manners than he did.

 

Impressive.

 

Kinda.

 

Also, not that fun to be on the receiving end.

 

"What do you mean, 'what's wrong with me'?" The pagan gave a grin and a shake of his head, sending Patrick's lip curling for what felt like the millionth time since he'd stepped foot in this fucking country. "What's funny ab-"

 

"Okay."

 

The pagan cut him off effectively, leaning back into his bench and giving Patrick a half-smile. "Let's play a game then."

Sheepishness flashed over Patrick for a second, before he covered it up for dear life- but it was too late, the Northman was already laughing through a chime of: "Den søteste fyren, jeg sverger."

 

"What fucking game?"

 

"Oi da, bedårende-"

 

"What fucking ga-"

 

"I ask you a question." The pagan cocked his head softly, laughter finally gone from his voice to be replaced with that light, amused, smug tone it always carried. "And, you answer it."

 

"That's not a game-"

 

"Just- hysj." The Northman was leaning forwards now, eyes pressing but still soft. "If you can, answer it- you can ask me a question."

 

Patrick was about to tell him how fucking stupid that was, before something made him pause.

 

This could be his chance to find out why he'd dragged Patrick here- and, maybe, just maybe, where they actually were

Yes, Patrick knew it was 'Norway', but if he could figure out how to navigate, somehow, then maybe…maybe- maybe he could get home.

 

"Fine." His voice was quiet and courteous, and his nod was just the same. The pagan's lips twitched into a smirking grin, and he nodded back deeply, while adamantly keeping his eyes on Patrick.

 

"What's your house?"

 

Patrick groaned deeply, head tipping back into the cloth curtain behind it. "I thought we _established_ that-"

 

" _Skyll deg_ \- and, just, answer the question."

 

The boy dropped his gaze, eyes dark and lidded and unamused. "Stump."

 

"…Like, a _tree_ , stump?"

 

Patrick glared at the genuinely curious look on Pete's face, but under a twitching jaw and gritted teeth, he held it together. "Yes. It's Saxon."

The pagan nodded, sniffing and leaning back into his bench, before raising his eyebrows at Patrick.

 

Oh yeah, shit- he had to ask a question. Uh- okay…okay- okay, he had one.

 

"Where are you from?"

 

Patrick wanted to die.

 

The pagan snorted a laugh, eye corners crinkling as he tried to stifle it under Patrick's glower. Shit, he'd wasted a question; The pagan was from the 'north'- 'Norway' whatever- he already fucking knew that, why was he so stupid? What had he done to deserve this-

 

"Well, I'm uh- I'm from _Norway_ \- shocking, I know."

 

Patrick wanted to stab himself.

 

"I uh- grew up, in Lofoten-"

 

In the face.

 

"That's- _here_. If you, missed that."

 

Repeatedly.

 

The Northman chuckled softly, eyes falling on Patrick as he spoke in a gentle voice. "I'll tell you where my parents are from, how about that?"

Patrick nodded, voice quiet and high from the dizzying spikes of embarrassment in his gut. "Please."

 

"Okay," There was still a ghost of a chuckle behind the word, but Patrick was only glad he hadn't _completely_ failed. "My father is from Narvik- it's uh- on the mainland."

He dragged a thumb along the blunt of the blade- making Patrick wince slightly. "And my mother is from the North of Africa."

 

Patrick blinked, suddenly bursting with interest. "Wait-" He struggled over his words, "Africa?" The pagan nodded again, "Just south of Castille- the moor invaders, you know them."

Ignoring Patrick's parted mouth and his furrowed brow, the Northman only continued with a quick nod and a light voice. "She was a slave- some Italian traders brought her here."

 

"Y-Your mother was a, slave?"

 

The pagan raised his brow at Patrick, a slow smile spreading through his features. "It's not that bad, calm down."

 

" _What_ -"

 

"She's free now, anyway." The Northman shifted in his seat, rag still working over the axe's blade. "She was a slave for _a month_ , engelskmann- not that bad, believe me."

 

Patrick fell silently, slumping a little against the bench.

The Northman's mother was a slave. But- he was- he looked, powerful- influential. _He'd_ met with an English king, _he'd_ accepted the terms, _he'd_ spoken to all those people in the odd building. How could he-

 

"Now, I expect a thorough answer from you, engel."

 

Patrick, snapped from his thoughts, glared. "Depends on the question."

 

"Alright." The pagan smirked, burying the axe in the fire- a shower of sparks bursting up from the log. "What is England like?"

 

"...Well, that's a pretty _broad_ question-"

 

"Alright, alright," The pagan grinned through a roll of his eyes, before dropping them back on Patrick lazily. "Which gods do you pray to there?"

 

"There's only one god."

 

"Okay, fine, whatever you say. What's his name?"

 

"God."

 

"Well that's not very creative."

 

Patrick sighed, head lolling to the side defeatedly, eyelids fluttering tiredly. "It's not supposed to be creative, it's just-"

 

"What does your god do?" The pagan was leaning forwards now, less interested on the newly acquired sword in his hand, and more intrigued by the answers coming from Patrick.

 

"He uh- _saves_ , people, I don't know-"

 

"And what does he save them from?"

 

Patrick squinted, slightly concerned the pagan didn't know that already. "…The devil."

 

"What does the devil do?"

 

"He- he punishes people. Tries to, deceive humanity, or something, I don't-" The pagan cocked his head, stabbing the sword into the fire, and crossing his arms loosely. "And, how does your god save them?"

 

Patrick hadn't really been expecting a barrage of questions about God, of all things. And it wasn't really his best or favourite subject, leading to an excess of stutters and- as a consequence, amused looks from the pagan. "People pray, and- give money to the church, and- He- He saves their souls."

 

The pagan's face dropped, and he leaned forwards, shoulders shifting in an almost entrancing way, while brown eyes lit up gold by orange flames bored into him.

 

"What are their 'souls'?"

 

Patrick froze, heart skipping beats in his chest as he stared back at the pagan. He truly looked demonic, eyes filled with fire, shadows casting on his face, and stare deep and steady. He choked on his words, head shaking as he stumbled out of his silence with a raised brow.

 

"I- I don-"

 

"Alright, your turn."

 

"I- uh, okay-" Patrick struggled with his words, and took to nodding as a distraction as his mind worked a million miles per hour, trying to recover from the onslaught of- Oh y'know what? Fuck it. He was gonna give this asshole a taste of his own medicine. "Well, what does _your_ god do?"

 

"God _s_. With an 's'. _Plural_."

 

Patrick rolled his eyes deeply, but the pagan only chuckled softly. "Well, we have twelve, main gods. And they-" A look of peace crossed over the Northman's face, lips quirking into a soft smile and eyes glazing over adoringly.

"They shape our futures. They write our fates. They...they guide us." His eyes flicked up towards Patrick. "And, if we win their favour in this life, then they may let us through the gates of Valhalla."

 

That sounded stupid.

 

Kinda.

 

Okay, paired with the serious tone and the dark eyes- maybe not that stupid, but- Patrick wasn't succumbing the scary eyes. He was an adult. Kind of. Legally. Sort of.

 

"Okay, my turn." The pagan grinned, eyes lighting up. "You're royalty, aren't you?"

Patrick blinked, shaken by the sudden change in demeanour- but regardless, he stuttered out an answer. "Uh- y-yeah, I'm uh…a prince of Kent."

 

The pagan only hummed, tilting his head at Patrick, before shrugging off his linen shirt without a word.

Patrick both froze and recoiled, eyes wide and stare stuck as several, conflicting thoughts spike through him. Most notably:

 

What the fuck.

 

And secondly:

 

Why was he still staring.

 

The pagan raised his gaze from his shirt, glancing at Patrick briefly before dropping it back to his own, golden and inked arm.

 

Oh yeah, Patrick was supposed to be asking questions.

 

Right.

 

Fuck.

 

"Uh- Do you- Like, I mean-" Patrick shook his head, his tongue suddenly feeling heavy as he stared at the pagan's arm as it tensed.

 

_That_ wasn't fair. _That_ wasn't fair at all.

 

Patrick didn't even know human beings had that many muscles- let alone the ridges of bones Patrick had seldom seem; Maybe it was a Northman thing, maybe this guy was just a weird freak of nature.

And the lines- the, drawings, whatever they were; They were black, and…embedded, in his skin. It was weird, and- it made Patrick grimace and gaze simultaneously.

Everything from odd symbols, to animals drawn like the carvings on the ships- Patrick wondered if he'd been born with those.

 

"Uh… _hei_. Noen hjemme?"

 

Oh yeah. Questions- shit-

 

Patrick shook his head quickly, ignoring the pull his eyes were pleading for, and instead, forcing them on brown eyes. "What do you- uh- what do- oh…kay-"

 

The pagan had leaned back, and Patrick didn't know why he couldn't stop staring at the ridges. They shifted under his skin as he breathed, golden and hard and _a lot_.

His eyes dropped, throat constricting at the hip bones that poked out like glass shards. This was weird. And he was staring. A lot. Too much. Look away Patrick. Be strong. Look away. Jesus is watching.

Thankfully, Patrick had taken his gazing chances while the Northman was distracted by a scar on his arm, and by the time he glanced upwards again, Patrick was ready with a question to hide the fact that he'd been gaping at his ribs that stuck out in perfectly neat lines-

 

Stop it Patrick. _Chill out_.

 

"What do you do? Like, uh- do you, do you work, or…?"

 

The Northman nodded, "We all work." He ran a thumb over the scar on his arm, that cut through an intricate dark drawing of what looked like three, linked triangles. "We fish, and we, farm animals."

It wasn't really what Patrick had meant to ask, so, with a slight furrow, he tried again. "Uh- I uh, I meant, you- you spoke, to everyone."

The pagan's brow knitted for a mere second, before his eyes cleared in realization. "Oh- it's just- I'm the Jarl."

 

Patrick nodded slowly, eyes wide as though he were coaxing words from a child. "…And what does that mean?"

 

"I don't know the word..." The pagan chewed his lip, before squinting and trying a slow, explaining answer. "We are- just below the king, in terms of power."

 

Patrick froze. He was- The pagan was _actually_ powerful? Like, truly- _legally_? Second to _the king_? What the hell-

 

"Do- Do you have _a_ _kingdom_ \- or, what does-"

 

"First off," The Northman's grin was back in place, "It's called a 'Jarldom'."

 

Obviously.

 

"And, yes," He inhaled deeply, and exhaled with a nod, as though something was stressing on his lungs. "I own everything from Finnmarken to Tromsø."

 

Well Patrick had no idea what the fuck that meant, but he nodded and hummed anyway- before a loud yawn burst through it, paralysing his throat and words for mere seconds as his eyes scrunched closed. When they opened again, the pagan was smirking at him softly, and Patrick couldn't hold back a roll of his eyes.

"It was a long journey." He nodded in agreement as he stood, tugging his shirt back over his head, before pacing over to the door at the foot of the long room. Patrick glanced around nervously, shifting on the bench awkwardly. Well great, he was gonna have to sleep on wood- fantastic-

 

"So, do you… _want_ , to sleep on a bench?"

 

The pagan watched him from the door frame, eyebrow quirked and tone careful. Patrick rolled his eyes- he just couldn't help it, and let his voice flood with sarcasm. "Oh yeah, totally. I'm really excited about sleeping on a bench, and like, waking up sore, and cramped- I'm all about that life-"

 

"Aren't you a little too tired for sarcasm?"

 

Patrick huffed at the pagan, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Never." The Northman smiled at that, and nodded deeply. "I'll keep that in mind, but-" He hid a small, breathy yawn behind his hand, "I'm tired, your little island is _very_ far away-"

 

"It's seven- there are _seven_ _kingdom_ _s for_ \- you can't just call it an islan-"

 

"And I'm going to sleep. So, good luck, with…" He chuckled at the benches. "that." The Northman disappeared through the door, but his voice chimed out not long after. "Oh- and I have all the blankets."

 

"Why-"

 

"Because it's _my_ house, engel."

 

Patrick narrowed his eyes at the door, and rocked up to his feet, quickly pacing over to the door with defiance and sleepy, freezing logic in his head.

 

And sleepy, freezing logic said: Get a blanket, get a bed, and fall asleep.

 

Without much regard, he pushed the door open, and poked his head around the corner.  
  
The room was bigger than he'd been expecting, admittedly.

Lit up by sconces, skins on the floor, and a few swords here and there…for some reason.

In the center, there was a wooden bed frame, carved and as intricate as the buildings. The mattress laying on it looked soft too, and the heaps of wool, cotton, and fur on top were enough to make Patrick whine.

 

He was fucking freezing; There'd been a constant chill in his bones up until now, but- Shit, that blanket ratio was just unfair.

 

The pagan chuckled from the heap and sat up, raising a brow at Patrick. He was wearing something that looked like a wool sweater, and it looked _warm_ ; Patrick made a note to ask for one of those, he'd definitely need one. Soon.

 

"What do you want?"

 

Patrick squinted, lip curling weakly as sudden exhaustion numbed most of his anger. "A blanket would be great. Bed would be better."

 

The Northman hummed for a moment, before he clicked his tongue with a shake of his head, dropping back into the huddles of wool and fur with a thud. "Nah."

 

"Wha- why not?"

 

"Uh…because they're _mine_?"

 

"But-"

 

"Look," He sat up again swiftly, cocking his head at Patrick with sleep all over his features. "I like my blankets, so you share, or you don't get one at all. Your choice." He fell back into them and turned onto his side, groaning as he pulled two up to his chin.

 

Patrick scowled weakly, but his mind spun as he considered his options.

 

He could just march out, go sleep next to the fire; It would be cold, he might wake up sore, and he might accidentally catch fire. Not great, but the other option wasn't fantastic either.

Because the other option meant sleeping next to _the heathen_. And Patrick wasn't too willing, admittedly.

 

He'd only slept next to a total of two people in his entire life; The first being his mother, the day he was born, and the second being that one time he'd slept in Kevin's bed after having a pretty bad nightmare.

The third, he'd expected back then, would be his future wife. But now, it was shaping up to be a Northman who had essentially bought him like a goat, or something.

 

He sighed deeply, eyelids as heavy as anchors in a sea of exhaustion. Okay. Y'know what? Fuck it. Fuck it, Patrick was tired as shit, and just because this bastard wanted to play games, didn't mean he was gonna freeze to death that night, okay?

 

With a stony glare, Patrick paced towards the bed with a confidence that didn't quite reach his shaky hands and knees.

He squinted at the pagan as he pulled his boots off, slamming them to the ground as he kept his glower trained.

The Northman only watched him through half-open eyes and a lazy, victorious grin. No. The pagan wasn't victorious- the winner here was Patrick; He'd be the cozy one sleeping in fifty blankets tonight, that motherfucker-

 

A loud yawn burst from his own mouth, and he inadvertently fell into the bed with a sigh. He shifted around, laying on his side and burrowing himself into as many blankets as he could tug his way.

The pagan only watched him with a smile, staying silent until he settled down, laying still and letting his eyes flutter shut.

 

"Good night, engelskmann."

 

"Fuck off."

 

He could _feel_ the slow, smug grin on the Northman's face. "…Do you _want_ to go sleep outside with the horses, or something?"

 

Patrick's reply was half-asleep and only a sad mumble into his cloth, feather-stuffed pillow. "No thanks."

 

"I thought princes were supposed to have manners."

 

"I said 'thanks'- but, _whatever_ , and I thought pagans didn't speak English, but everyone's just _full of surprises_ , aren't they?"

 

The Northman snorted an ugly, tired laugh at that, before sighing and tossing an arm over his eyes that Patrick barely saw through a heavily lidded gaze.

The younger of the two huffed curtly, writhing around in his blankets and rubbing his legs together, hope the friction led to heat, because he was cold as shit- God, how did these people live like this?

 

"G'night _heathen_."

 

There was a chuckle, and a nudge at his leg. "What happened to your Saint?"

 

"Peter?"

 

"Uh huh."

 

Patrick sniffed and fought his eyes open, rubbing at them as he shrugged from under his cocoon. "Doesn't fit you, I don't know." He yawned heavily, entire body shrinking and shaking with the sheer force of it. "Too serious. And- Peter was a good guy."

 

There was another quiet laugh, and another nudge at his knee. "And I'm not?"

 

"Fine- I'll call you Pete then, shut up Pete."

 

"…What's Pete?"

 

"It sounds likethe- like that stuff, like the plant that eats people, like- it's called peat- and you're an asshole like that plant is, so it's kinda funny, right-"

 

"I have no idea what you're talking about-"

 

" _OhgodshutupPete_."

 

"You have plants that eat people in England?" The voice sounded truly shaken. "Det er det noe _galt_ _med_ -"

 

"Jus- lemme sleep." Patrick waved a hand out towards the voice, pressing it down on what he assumed was the pagan- oh fuck, fine, _Pete's_ , face. He heard a muffled amused huff, and with a content sigh at the silence that followed, Patrick slipped his hand away and curled up in the blankets.

 

"God natt, engelskmann."

 

"Bad night, Pete. Get it, 'cause- have a bad night, 'cause-"

 

A hand moved to his head, pressing down on the top with a firm pat that clearly said 'Enough'.

 

 

"Just- go to sleep, Patrick."

 

 

 

 


	3. The Price Is Not Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Finding old Norse names that can totally be substituted for modern ones is v hard, but actually doable.

 

Patrick was warm.

 

That was the first thing his brain registered as he came out of sleep, eyes sluggishly blinking open. Shit, he needed to get up; He needed to go hide at church before Kevin burst through the door with a sword and made him go train- wait.

He squinted at the blanket pressed against his nose, mind frazzled in confusion. Okay, like- it was soft, and warm, and whatever, but-

 

The second Patrick rolled onto his back, catching the wooden walls, and lack of windows, he remembered.

 

Patrick gave a long, guttural, and heartfelt groan, tugging the blanket over his head and letting the remnants of the groan bounce around in his throat as a growl. "Fuck this place."

 

Goddammit- he was in the fucking 'north'; This place fucking sucked, god fuck-

 

Wait.

 

He was in- he was in a bed, and- oh no.

 

Forcing himself to be cautious, Patric tugged the blanket down from his head and glanced to his side, heart beating against his ribs with an intent to seriously maim. Shit, if the pagan- or, wait, Pete, was it? Well, if, Pete, was fucking staring at him, he was getting a punch in the jaw, Patrick didn't give a fuck anym-

 

The bed was empty. Huh.

 

Patrick's brow was still low, and his shifting glares suspicious flicked over the room as he sat up.

He sniffed, cold spikes of air flooding his nose. This was…weird. This whole situation was just, weird. Patrick slunk out of the bed, cringing a little at the memory of sliding into it the night before; Fuck, all that shit for _blankets_ , that had _not_ been worth it- and all because Pete hadn't just given him one, what a dick.

 

With a new kind of caution, Patrick paced forwards, nothing but grateful that the floorboards didn't creak under his steps.

He reached the door, squinting at it in the dim light. Okay, real talk- why did these guys not have windows?

Windows were practical, let in light, made places less dark, essentially. Patrick felt like he was totally gonna trip over something if it kept being dark. Wait, maybe they just didn't _know_ about windows; These Northmen seemed pretty primitive, maybe he'd have to explain the art of cutting a fucking hole into the wall.

As he stepped outside, however, the fire was glowing in the middle of the room, lighting it up just enough for Patrick to actually fucking see his surroundings and the wolf that was eating- wait, _why_ , was there a wolf in here?

 

The wolf was chewing on a bone- oh fuck, it killed the pagan. Oh no. It saw him. Oh that wasn't good at all.

 

Patrick, forcing his eyes to stay on the animal, backed away carefully. The wolf pushed up from its haunches, dropping the bone- that kinda looked like a leg holy shit- and watched him.

  
What the fuck- Patrick had seen a wolf, once, total. He'd been six years old, it had broken into the stables, and his brother had found it; He'd dragged Patrick there, he'd stolen a sword, but by the time they got there- the Master-At-Arms had already dealt with it. He and his brother had been yelled at by their parents for a good hour. His ears still hurt from that bullshit.

 

But- _this_ wolf, it just kinda…stared, at him.

 

Patrick's eyes flicked to the sword in the fire; Blade white hot, but hilt cold leather. He glanced at the wolf; It looked away, turning to nose at the bone a little more.

  
Leaning forwards quietly, Patrick wrapped a hand around the hilt and tugged, feeling the sword come loose. He glanced upwards. The wolf was still pawing at the bone. Patrick choked back a shaky exhale, and slide the blade out of the log it had been buried in. Okay. The wolf's head snapped towards him, teeth baring in an instant. Not okay.

A low, rumbling hum rang from the creature as it hunched down, eyes locked on Patrick, and bone completely forgotten as it edged around tactfully.

  
Okay. Okay, it was cool, he could do this- he'd totally been paying attention in sword training, he really had, he'd practised a lot, he was great, he was totally- Oh fuck he couldn't do this.

Oh shit, he was completely lying to himself; He'd lost like, every single practise fight, he couldn't fucking-

 

"Are you trying to kill my dog?"

 

Oh fuck.

The sword dropped from his hand as he yelped, head snapping up to see- Pete, _motherfucker_ -

 

"I-I- I didn't know that was your-"

 

Pete whistled lightly, and the wolf- or, dog, apparently…didn't fucking look like a dog, turned, and bounded over to him in a second.

"God gutt-" The words turned into a snort of a laugh when Pete crouched down, and the dog rubbed its head on his arm with a whine. He scratched behind its ear, the grin still broad and bright on his face. "Hvem er en god gutt, huh?"

The dog whined, tail thumping against its hind legs frantically as it tried to crawl all over Pete.

 

Pete glanced upwards at Patrick, arms still full of happy, writhing dog begging to be pet. "So," He stood, chuckling as the dog insisted on nuzzling his hand. Pete raised his eyebrows at Patrick, the ghost of an amused, stifled grin on his face. "How are you?"

 

_How was he?_

 

"Well, I almost had a heart attack, so jot that down."

 

" _Så_ dramatisk-"

 

"You know," Patrick's eyes squinted into a glare, "I may not be able to speak like, whatever the fuck it is _you_ speak-"

 

"Nor-"

 

"Don't care- But, I can just about make out the word, ' _dramatic_ ', alright asshole? I'm not that fucking stupid."

 

Pulling his bottom lip into his mouth and chewing it to hold back a grin, Pete nodded quickly and glanced down at his dog- but Patrick wasn't done. Oh no. _Not at all_.

 

"And, secondly-" Pete rolled his eyes lightly, and Patrick's eyes squinted that much more. "I am not, being dramatic, alright?"

Pete smiled lazily, eyes lidded and easy. "…You tried to kill my dog. I think that's a _little_ dramatic."

 

"It- growled, at me…" His voice sounded weaker than he'd of liked it too, but despite his blinding fear of accidentally trying to kill Pete's dog- accidentally, the pagan didn't seem too, _mad_ , for some reason. He just watched Patrick with soft eyes and a lax stance, the ghost of a chuckle on his face.

 

"He's trained to growl at people trying to kill him, Patrick."

 

"And- and-" Yep, _now_ he sounded like a four year old, fuck, this was not going well. "It…well, it doesn't _look_ like a dog, alright?"

 

Pete hummed at that, leaning down to pat the side of the dog's head. "I'm not sure what he is, actually."

 

What.

 

"What?"

 

Pete nodded and shrugged, "Yeah, he was a baby. I just found him in the forest one day." He paced forwards and leant down to fetch the sword, leaving Patrick to flinch involuntarily.

Shit, he was getting too comfortable here. He had to remember that- this guy was a pagan; They'd attacked their kingdoms, stolen gold, murdered people, burnt down cities. He seemed nice enough now…if a little annoying, but one wrong move, and-

Pete grinned at him, and Patrick smiled back automatically, and weakly- before mentally punching himself for it, and dropping his face back into a glare.

 

"…So, you just, take animals home? You just- find 'em the forest, and just, go for it? Hope they don't suddenly try to eat you?"

 

Pete grinned, eyes crinkling at their corners as he stabbed the sword into the fire, before leaning back to quirk an eyebrow at Patrick, and shrug.

 

 

"I brought _you_ home, didn't I?"

 

 

Patrick only really recovered from that verbal slap in the face after Pete had gone to the bedroom, returned from the bedroom holding two sweaters, had put a sweater on, had handed another sweater to Patrick, and had walked over to the front door.

 

"Wait what the fuck-"

 

"Kom hit, gutt." The dog- or, wolf- or, unknown cryptid, apparently, bounded towards Pete with a furiously wagging tail and a stubborn paw at his leg.  
Pete glanced back over at Patrick, smile broad and brow still raised. "Are you coming?"

Without a word, Patrick paced towards Pete. He really didn't even consider asking 'where to'; Honestly, Pete could've gotten bored of him, and been taking him out to the chopping block, and he wouldn't have even known until he'd see the axe- but, he was feeling a little slow after that goddamn burn, and not to mention the whole 'dog' situation- _fucking asshole_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Admittedly, Patrick wasn't too happy about stumbling around in a forest, but Pete walked faster than he did, so it was stumble or get left behind to get eaten by-

 

"Who did your father kill?"

 

Patrick grunted as he tripped over a root, _just_ catching himself on his palms. He moved to push himself up with a sigh, but before he knew it, he'd been dragged up to stand gently, all by the hand around his arm.

 

_Pete's_ hand.

 

He squinted, and the pagan dropped it with an amused smile, before setting off again with a glance Patrick's way.

"So," He made sure to keep his steps slow, leaving Patrick with enough time to avoid stones and roots. "Who did he kill?"

Patrick's brow dropped in a second. What the fuck was this pagan insinuating about his father? He hadn't killed anyone, what the- "Uh, _nobody_?"

For the first time since Patrick had known him, Pete looked genuinely bewildered; Eye wide, jaw slack, but brow furrowed as dark pupils darted around in confusion. "…He- He didn't kill, anyone?"

 

"No…?" Patrick squinted at Pete oddly, but the pagan kept insisting with a shake of his head. "But- how did he win the throne?" Suddenly, his brown eyes cleared and he stared at Patrick. "Did he get it from his father?"

Patrick nodded slowly, face still scrunched up in some kind of confusion. "Yeah, how else would he be a king?"

Pete's face dropped into contemplation, and he turned away from Patrick to focus on the trail ahead of them, patting the side of his dog's head idly. Patrick glared at the dog.

It'd been growling at him all day so far. Like, okay, he _understood_ he'd tried to kill it, but, c'mon- don't hold a grudge, dude-

 

"…Who did _his_ father kill?"

 

"Uh- nobody, I don't-"

 

"Really?"

 

"No-"

 

"He inherited it too?"

 

Patrick threw a hand up, just about choking out a- "Yeah."

Pete whistled lowly, eyes wide at Patrick. "…Your family must be great warriors, if you haven't lost the throne in such a long time-"

Patrick stopped abruptly, an annoyed sound launching out of his throat. "G- Nobody killed anyone, alright?" Pete stopped to, face still furrowed, but mouth silent as Patrick didn't let up.

"We just-" He exhaled deeply, eyes softening and tone shifting towards explanation, rather than just yelling stuff at Pete.

He was a pagan, he probably didn't understand civilized concepts like primo-fucking-geniture- "The throne is just- ours by right. Okay?"

 

Pete froze for a moment, only to snap out of it a moment later. " _What_ right?"

 

Well, that was treason if Patrick had ever heard it.

 

"We- Because, it's ours, it belongs to our family."

"…But, why? Are you guys, strong, or, smart, or something? Did your God choose you?" Pete's eyes widened softly, and Patrick let out a quiet gasp as he realized that Pete wasn't, in fact, just being rude, or, an asshole here.

He stared into those clear, brown eyes that kinda reminded him of the honey the bees used to- No no- chill out, Patrick, Jesus- "N-No, we just-" Patrick shook his head, gaping like a fish, and truly at a loss for what to say.

 

Nobody had ever asked him that question before, he'd never been taught the answer to it.

 

"Well," Pete huffed a little, the smile returning as he set back to pacing along the unmarked path he somehow knew. "I don't know how it works in England," He turned to smirk at Patrick- who, back in his right mind, glowered back weakly. "But, here, we have to defend our thrones."

Patrick's brow furrowed, steps lagging a little behind Pete.

 

"Wait, so…did you, kill someone, or-?"

 

"Well, I've killed _a lot_ of people, Patrick-"

 

"Not what I meant, and you know it."

 

Pete chuckled lightly, glancing down at his dog- who had kindly brought him a stick, and patting him on the head, before turning to nod at Patrick over his shoulder. "Jarl Hróarr." Pete idly stepped over a rock, "Had to exile his wife and children to Iceland too."

Patrick's eyes fell wider than he'd of liked them to, but through a shaky gulp, he managed yet another question- that was only met with another smirk. "Why did you- do…that?"

Smirk aside, Pete gave a long suffering sigh, as though retelling the story was tiresome. "He was greedy, started stealing all the profit from our raids, started taking our slaves and, our land, for himself."

Pete shrugged, and Patrick caught himself staring at the way his shoulder blades shifted for a second too long. "We all agreed something had to be done."

 

"You- 'all'? You, conspired? Against your ruler?" Patrick could hardly believe it. Back home, if anyone conspired against anybody as lowly as a lord, their head would be on a spike before they could try another word. Jesus Christ, these people were insane.

Pete smirked, casting Patrick a quirked eyebrow. "That _is_ legal here, engel." Patrick huffed and glanced away, focusing his gaze back on the uneven path. "So, why'd they pick you to kill him?"

" _Duel_ him for the throne- I'm not a murderer, Patrick." Patrick squinted; Killing people didn't make him a murderer- Great logic there, sport. "And, we all fought each other- in turns, and, the final winner had to…" Pete ended on a shrug, and a silent word Patrick somehow understood.

"Wait, so-"

 

" _Åh gud_ , jeg hadde håpet de ryktene var falske."

 

Patrick's head snapped towards the new voice, only to find-

 

" _Hvilke_ rykter?" Pete was grinning as he paced forwards towards a man with mousey curls and a short, scraggy beard; He was holding a baby on his ribs, his brow was raised, but his eyes were lidded as Pete stepped forwards- Patrick following at a more cautious distance. "At du stjal en fyr fra England."

Pete clicked his tongue, but the smile remained. "Jeg _stjal_ ikke ham, det var en _transaksjon_." The man nodded with a light roll of his eyes and ghost of a smile, "Ja, sikkert, jeg tror deg."

Crossing his arms loosely, Pete huffed in amusement, and in a blank moment, Patrick found himself smiling at the sound like a fucking idiot, no don't- "Vel, du ville vite om du hadde vært der."

With an amount of sarcasm that actually impressed Patrick- despite not knowing a single word, the man rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Au, du såret meg-"

 

"Pappa!"

Patrick's- along with Pete's, and the man's, head snapped towards the call. A little girl- couldn't have been older than four, rushed towards them and quickly barrelled into the man's side- while holding a…was that a chicken? What the-

"Hun er trist, pappa."

She held up the lightly clucking chicken with a deep, pouted frown, and the man only nodded slowly.

He shifted his wide, blue eyes between Pete, the girl, and the chicken, all while gaping like a fish. "D-du _er sikker_ \- Men, hør på meg-"  
Pete glanced over his shoulder, shifting on his heel to smirk back at Patrick. He raised an eyebrow, and Patrick wrinkled his nose, shrugging a silent question irritably.

The pagan motioned his head over, mouthing something that looked suspiciously like 'come here'.

 

With a healthy amount of reluctance, Patrick stepped forwards, eyes squinted and brow knitted as he came to stand at Pete's left- the dog looked at him, nope, back to the right.

As the girl scrambled away, chicken still in her hands as she called out for her mom with a bright beam, the curly haired man exhaled with a shake of his head. " _Triste kyllinger_ , ærlig."

 

His eyes moved and stopped on Patrick, his brow raising a little as he glanced back at Pete. "Dette er han, antar jeg."

Pete stifled a grin and nodded, "Og du er riktig." He turned his stare to Patrick, voice light and making a real attempt at amicable. "This is my friend, uh- Jósepr Dávíðson Tró-"

 

"Not a real name. Calling him Joseph."

 

"…Alright fine." Pete stifled a chuckle and raised his brow back at Joseph- Joe. Yeah, Joe, that was his name now, Patrick wasn't taking no for an answer.

These pagans had weird as _fuck_ names, and he'd be damned if he accepted them as valid. They didn't exist, they were just made up guttural sounds that sounded more animal than human-

 

"Han heter Patrick." Joe nodded slowly, before just as slowly holding out a hand, in the first polite gesture Patrick had seen in this fucking country. Patrick took it quickly, shaking firmly and matching Joe's nod.

This pagan had those weird, dark drawings all over his arms too- there was even one on his neck; Patrick was getting curious about those things, he made a note to ask Pete about them.

 

"Merkelig navn."

 

Pete chuckled lightly as the hands fell back to sides. "Jeg vet, ikke sant?" Joe only hummed again, squinting at Patrick lightly, before shifting back over to Pete. "Hva har du til i dag?"

"Jeg skal se Týlir." Pete's voice dropped, sounding a little lower and more serious than Patrick had heard it before. "Jeg må snakke med ham om skipene."

 

Joe smirked lightly and quirked an eyebrow. "Hvor mye skal det koste deg denne gangen?" Pete looked physically pained, voice only escaping him in a whine. "Mye."

The other chuckled and shook his head, clapping a hand on his friend's shoulder.

 

" _Faen_ , lykke til bror." Pete only ran a hand over his face and nodded, voice thick with sarcasm and words Patrick could hardly make heads or tails of. "Ja, _takk_ så mye."

They both nodded, and with simultaneous calls of "Ser deg"- Pete paced away again, dog at his side, and Patrick lagging behind, still glancing over his shoulder when he could.

They left the wooden house isolated by trees and coast behind, only to step through a border of forest, and up over steep hills that made everything from Patrick's hips to his feet ache like a motherfucker.

 

 

 

 

 

 

By the end of a particularly rocky, steep hill, Patrick was practically on all fours, panting and gripping at the jutting stones to pull himself to his feet.

He could barely open his eyes as he doubled over, breathing heavy, whines escaping him way too often, and the damp feeling of sweat already bristling along his spine.  
He really hadn't thought it'd be possible to sweat in a country this fucking cold, but miracles did happen, apparently.

 

"You okay there?"

 

Pete's voice sounded a little distant, and Patrick wasn't too sure if it was because Pete was walking away, or because he was passing out- but nonetheless, he forced himself to stand up straight and splay out a weak hand. "Y-Yeah, fine- I'm cool- s'great, uh huh-"

He heard a faint chuckle, and by the time he finally opened his eyes, Pete was watching him nonchalantly from yet, another fucking hill.

 

Patrick almost sobbed, but trudged forwards anyway. Slotting his soles into different ridges, and grabbing at stones, he panted through gritted teeth, all while feeling strands stick to his forehead. "I hate you. So much."

There was another snort of laughter, and before Patrick knew it, he was hauled up to his feet by a firm hand. He grunted and jerked away, weakly glaring at Pete through his exhaustion, "Didn't- need that- motherfucker."

 

"Sure, engel." There was a light pat on his shoulder before the steps moved away again, only, Patrick forced himself to react quicker that time. He raised his head, opened his eyes but quickly narrowed them at the sight.

There was a small, carved cabin, herbs hanging from the edges- not unlike the ones in the town, only, smaller, sat in the middle of fucking nowhere; Sticking out like a sore thumb, but hidden like a needle in a haystack, it almost looked desolate.

 

Pete however, strode forwards without reservation, and Patrick found himself following not long after.

This was starting to concern him slightly, he was following Pete way too often- and way too willingly for it to be healthy. He needed to get more independent- yeah, that's what he needed to do. He made a note to-

 

"Ditt _kjæledyr_ kristen?"

 

A man Patrick somehow hadn't seen earlier pushed off from where he'd been leaning on a tree, eyes locked on him in that weird, long stare these pagans were so good at giving.

Pete chuckled, stopping easily and glancing back at Patrick too. "Jeg tror ikke han er like tam som et kjæledyr." He and the man turned their gazes back at each other, "Men ja. Det er han."

 

The man was skinny, but not overly tall, and he- unlike the others, didn't have those black pictures on his arm, and instead, he only bore straight, neat lines, shaped into all kinds of symbols he'd never hoped to see before.

He stared at him with an odd, long gaze, and a curled lip that wasn't unlike Patrick's annoyed stare. It didn't feel great on the receiving end, but Patrick assumed the best thing to do was to send the same, irritated gaze back.

 

"Hvorfor kom du med ham?" Pete sighed heavily, but the other man only knitted his brow and continued, chasing a rolling gaze. "Du vet jeg kan ikke- _Kristne_ , fyr." He nudged Pete in the shoulder harshly, but the older man only huffed in amusement. "Det er alvorlig. Kom igjen- _kristne_."

 

"Jeg kunne ikke bare la ham være alene-"

 

"Hvorfor ikke-"

 

"Han ville nok brenne huset ned, du vet hvordan de er."

 

Patrick was getting a little fed up of the conversations he understood, so, with a huff and a cross of his arms, he decided to stare out through the trees, and out over the ridge the house sat on.

Below, after a pretty harsh-looking drop, sat a still lake that looked just as blue as the sea back under the mountain. And, as he craned his neck a little, he _just_ spotted a few long, planks of wood, suspended over smoky fires, along with all kinds of axes, and all topped off by the half-made skeletons of what looked like boats.

 

"La oss bare gå, _mine guder_ -"

 

Patrick's head snapped back just in time to see Pete snort a laugh, and to watch the younger man pace away down what looked like yet, another fucking trail.

So far, a lot of walking was necessary on a day-to-day basis, and Patrick _was not too thrilled_ about it.

 

"Hey, Patrick- come here."

 

Patrick groaned for what felt like the thousandth time that day, ignored the screaming ache in his legs, and followed. Just like the dog. Or, _worse_ , than the dog- seeing as he wasn't the best at keeping up over unfamiliar stones, sticks, and roots.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

" _Hvor_ mange?"

The younger man, who Patrick had learned was named 'Týlir'- but had quickly decided was _actually_ named- 'Tyler', instead, stared at Pete with wide, incredulous brown eyes.

The older rolled his eyes with a smile and gazed out at the three ship skeletons sat on the coast. "Ganske sikkert du hørte meg, men-" He exhaled contently, brow raised and smile more expectant than anything. "Femti mer."

 

Tyler scoffed without any real anger and gripped a hand through his hair, chewing the inside of his cheek as he squinted at the boats. "Det er mye arbeid." His brown eyes flicked back to Pete. "Det er mye _penger_."

Pete shrugged, but gave a curt nod. "Jeg vet." A slow smile started spreading over his face. "Men jeg kjenner deg. Du kan _helt_ gjøre det."

Tyler clicked his tongue, arms crossing over his chest as he kicked at the sandy grass that marked the border of forest and beach. "Ja, jeg sannsynligvis-"

He groaned in frustration, snapping at Pete with a furrowed brow and hands curled into fists. "Jeg, mener-" He counted off the words on his fingers sternly, brow knitted at a smiling Pete the entire time. "Ankere, seilene, akser, arbeidere- Har du _noen_ ide om hvor dyrt det kommer til å være?"

 

Pete shrugged lightly, but his voice was even lighter. "Jeg gir deg et lån."

 

Tyler pointed an accusing finger at Pete, and Patrick could do nothing but stare with a slack jaw.

Pete was his superior, right? So, why the hell was he speaking to him like that? Or- better yet, why the fuck wasn't Pete mad, or- arresting him, or something? No execution? No flogging? Did people just not give a fuck about status?

 

"Det er ikke poenget-"

 

"Det er pengene _mine_ , fyr." Pete clapped a hand on Tyler's shoulder, eyes wide but serious and reassuring. "De vil bli betalt, jeg lover."

As Pete's hand slipped away, Tyler sighed heavily, but ultimately, nodded. He rolled up a sleeve, letting a metal ring carved like those weird, animals Patrick kept seeing everywhere, stutter down his arm.

He pressed his free fingers to it, and raised his brow at Pete, speaking in a dull, monotone voice. "Jeg skal bygge skipene. Jeg sverger." Pete chuckled and nodded deeply. "Takk skal du ha."

Tyler mustered a weak squint of his eyes as he dropped his sleeve again, before crossing his arms and glaring out at the brilliantly blue water.

 

"Jeg håper du har en plan." He glanced at Pete from the corner of his eye, stare and voice replacing anger with pleading. "Jeg håper dette ikke er alt for ingenting."

Pete nodded with wide eyes and a smile, "Jeg har en plan." He glanced back at Patrick- who had been subjected to a long conversation he couldn't understand from where he leaned against a tree.

 

 

"Og han skal hjelpe meg."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, real quick: To everyone who's reading this insane bullshit, thank you so much, I really appreciate it, and your comments really keep me going!!


	4. God Is Dead

 

"Wait here."

 

Patrick couldn't even muster a retort through the chattering of his teeth, and only managed a grunt before Pete had strode away.

Arms tight across his chest, Patrick watched him, frozen for a moment.

He stopped at the open edge of a blacksmith's forge. Wooden beams, carved with those drawings Patrick still needed to ask about, a glowing fire springing up from coal, anvils, hammers- it was smaller than the one in Kent, but it looked better used.

Tyler already stood there, greeting the older man with a nod and a mumble Patrick could hardly hear over his teeth. There was also- what Patrick assumed was a blacksmith, if the soot covered hands were any indication, stood under the ledge of the roof, arms folded and eyes pressing. "Hei folkens-"

 

A particularly violent shiver wracked Patrick, and he quickly turned away, blowing hot breaths into his hands as he bounced a leg idly.

It had been getting colder over the last few days, but the pagans didn't seem bothered in the slightest.

 

Patrick, however, was _extremely_ fucking bothered.

 

There was a constant chill in his bones that spread further with every breath he took; It ached, and made him shudder in the worst of ways, and Patrick was getting fed up of it.

Pete had laughed at him at first, shaking his head at the 'weakness', before he'd realized just how paralyzed the cold rendered him.

So, at Pete's advice, but very begrudgingly, Patrick finally shed the clothes he'd been wearing since Kent, and accepted the ones Pete had been trying to give him for close to three days.

Annoyingly, Pete had been right; They were warmer, layers of cloth, linen, and leather- and not to mention the extra wool sweaters Pete had pretty much forced him to wear, on account of ' _not wanting him to get sick_ ', but Patrick found that hard to believe.

 

" _Femti_ ankre- Og, jeg antar at du også trenger akser og-" The blacksmith's voice was hard, but it held a spark of bewilderment, as he gave Pete that same look Tyler had a few days before.

 

With a sigh that steamed the air, Patrick glanced down to his side, quickly squinting at Pete's dog- who, apparently, had creatively been named 'Dog'- or, whatever the equivalent was, Patrick didn't really want, or care enough to know.

It was staring up at him too, eyes filled with irritation that was a little too easy to pinpoint. Patrick's spine trembled with a shudder. Freaky.

He and... _Dog_ , Jesus Christ- still weren't on good terms. Okay. Admittedly. Patrick _had_ tried to kill him- but _in his defense_ -

 

"Kom igjen!"

 

Patrick's head rocked up at the sound, eyes flicking over to the coast that seemed to linger at the edges just about everywhere in this town as he searched for its source.

It was cold today, and the sea was a perfect reflection of it; Oyster grey, brimming with pearly white, hissing foam, and swirling in uneven, angry waves. Patrick could hardly believe his eyes when he'd paced into town that morning; Gone was the teal water he'd seen since the first day, and in its place was only-

 

"Slå meg!"

 

Patrick craned his neck a little, but the source still remained out of view. He was curious, for some reason, but just as he moved to take a step forwards, Pete's voice cut through the ambience clearly, reminding him of the order to ' _wait_ '.

 

"Du har mitt ord-"

 

Patrick rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the cold in his bones and the disgust of being treated like an animal. Honestly- 'Wait here', he wasn't a fucking dog, he was human- no, _better_ than that, he was-

 

"Er du _sikker_ -"

 

Patrick glanced over his shoulder carefully, eyes wide as they scanned for Pete; He looked well enveloped in conversation, back turned, voice calm- and seemingly, had no intention to turn around any time soon.

Teeth digging into the inside of his cheek, Patrick quietly took a step forwards, and away.

Dog made a low, rumbling growl, barely loud enough for anyone but Patrick to catch. "Shut up- You- Shutthefuckup." Firmly pointing a finger at the creature, Patrick backed away carefully, making sure to keep his steps as quiet as he could.

No, he wasn't planning on running away- there was no fucking way he could _ever_ even try that, anyway. He just wanted to see what the-

 

"Men- _kom igjen_ , tispe!"

 

Patrick slipped away with a glance at Pete- back still turned, focus still stuck. Thank God.

Dog watched him from the border between dirt and sand, tense and poised- but stuck in place, truly bound by the order.

Patrick grinned proudly as soon as he got far enough, mumbling occasional triumphant strings of curses while he strode away, but soon enough, his hurried steps stuttered to a stop.

 

There were two men stood on a part of the coast that jutted out into the sea, one holding a sword, one holding an axe, but both carrying round, wooden, and painted shields.

They circled each other slowly, eyes locked, steps careful, and movements calculated. One was tall, sharp-featured, and quiet. Pale all over, from skin to eyes. while the other-

 

"Ikke vær en _rykk_ , Dallon- bare _kom igjen_ -"

 

-Was loud. And shorter. And bouncier. And holding an axe, rather than a sword. While he was still somewhat focused, he preferred taking breaks to yell- what Patrick assumed were, jeers, that were only met with a blank stare from the taller man.

His forearms, visible under a sand crusted shirt, were covered in coloured drawings, and Patrick could only squint at them across the distance. Shit, he really had to ask-

 

"Dallon." The shorter man dropped his fighting stance with a sigh, eyes wide and brow raised. "Hvis du ikke kommer til å-"

The taller of the two struck, sword whipping across in a deft slash that the shorter caught with his shield and a yelp. The moment he dodged another, a huge grin broke out over his face, paired with a crazed look in his eye. " _DER_ går vi- _det_ er det jeg snakker om-"

The taller stared for a moment, body freezing as he stared with a hunched pair of shoulder blades.

 

Patrick was slightly confused as to why nobody was stopping two guys from trying to kill each other on the beach.

 

Like, seriously- he glanced around, brow furrowed at all kinds of people, from men striding, to women carrying baskets, to kids playing tag- literally, nobody cared.

Patrick slowly turned his gaze back, just in time to catch the taller man lunge forwards with a grunt.

 

"Hold kjeft-"

 

The shorter grunted, shield barely reaching his head in time.

 

"Og _fokus_ -"

 

Patrick had to admit, it was slightly entertaining; Like, there was nothing to do around here, he assumed this was the Northman equivalent of like, _reading a book_ , right?

 

Minutes passed, filled with bashing shields, the ringing of blades, and the grunts of two men- who were still totally uninjured, somehow. Patrick was slightly concerned about their mortality rates, right now, and he wasn't too excited about watching one of them _die_ -

The taller's blade swung towards the shorter's neck, and just as Patrick winced and prepared himself for the spurt of blood- it stopped.

 

The shorter had his axe just pressing into the taller's thigh, but his face was struck by a grin and eyes sparkling with giddiness.

 

The taller huffed and dropped the sword, quickly followed by the shorter drawing his axe back. "Godt jobbet."

The shorter vainly linked an arm around the other's neck, straining onto his toes as he ruffled the taller's hair roughly with a grit of his teeth. " _Aw_ takk så mye, _kjæreste_ -"

"Agh- faen, _slipp_ _meg_ -" The taller shoved the other away with a jerk, rolling his eyes as he laughed raucously.

 

"Jævla idiot-"

 

"Aw- ikke vær _slem_ , Dallon-"

 

The blue gaze snapped to Patrick. Patrick froze, unsure whether to stay or awkwardly scurry back over to the blacksmith's forge.

 

"Det er engelskmannen, ikke sant?"

 

The shorter leaned up, squinting over the taller's shoulder for a moment. "Engelskmannen?" The other nodded, eyes narrowed lightly as he shrugged away from the shorter. "Ja, den ene han brakte tilbake."

Patrick's eyes shifted nervously; Fuck, not knowing this fucking language was really messing him up right now. As much as he hated the thought, maybe he'd have to ask Pete to teach him-

 

"Jeg skal snakke med ham."

 

The shorter paced towards him eagerly with a grin that was still a little crazed from the fight, and Patrick found himself firmly stuck; Soles tethered to the sand, and eyes wider than he'd of liked them to be.

"Nei- la han være i fred, Brendon-"

 

"Hey! You're that guy, right?"

 

Wait.

 

What-

 

How-

  
His voice was- familiar, it was- it sounded-

Patrick's brain fried in an instant as the shorter came to stop in front of him, grin still on his face amidst the red skin from trying to kill a guy with an axe-

 

"…Okay, I'm just gonna pretend you answered that-"

 

"You…sound…" Patrick was still a little slow, admittedly, but the other man only nodded slowly, almost like he was trying to urge the words out of him. "… _Northumbrian_ \- yeah, great job! But anyway-"

 

"Y-You- You're- I mean, you-"

 

"Hva gjorde du med ham-" The taller was only around a meter behind, eyes lidded and bored, but voice betraying the facade a little too well. "I didn't do anything- why do always blame _me_ -"

"Because you _always_ -"

 

"Wait."

 

Patrick's eyes were narrowed, his brow was knitted, his finger was pointed accusingly. "You're from- Northumbria? Like- actually, from-"

" _Yeah_." His smile faltered for a second, "Why? Is that weird? Where are-"

 

"Patrick."

 

Three heads whipped around towards what Patrick could already perfectly recognize as Pete's voice.

He looked more solemn than usual, stood at the edge of the coast, Dog at his side; There was a dark cloud hanging over him, something looked off.

Patrick hardly glanced back at the fighters before pacing away, thankful the sand was damp as he just about managed to not slip.

 

The second he was back in front of Pete, he offered a small smile and a concerned look, but Pete's blank face remained.

Where Patrick had honestly expected some kind of scolding for running off, Pete's voice was only a tired, tremulous sigh. "Come on."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He really didn't question where Pete led him anymore, and Patrick knew the general type of place to expect by now; Wooden slats, hanging herbs, carvings- the whole, cozy deal that was still a little foreign to him.

So when they arrived at a tiny house matching that exact description, Patrick followed Pete inside without a word or a scowl.

 

And then Patrick saw the monster.

 

In the middle of the dark room, sat at a table, still and quiet. No eyes- scarred skin where _fucking eyes_ should've been. Hooded, pale, silent. Long, boney fingers, and a thin mouth he could hardly make out in the dark light of the single room.

 

"What _the fuck_ is _that_?"

 

Patrick's voice was a broken squeak as he fell back against the wall, eyes as wide as plates and nerves alight with flight. Pete shot him a stern, wide look, and hazarded a whisper- in spite of the fucking monster- "Shut up."

 

Pressing stare fading, Pete looked back over at the creature. "Beklager om ham." The monster laughed, raspy and low- and, not to mention, downright _demonic_. "Ikke noe problem, _min_ _Jarl_."

Pete seemed to bristle at that, but he quickly glanced back at Patrick and motioned his head to the side, and towards a bench at the edge of the room.

It stood in a dark corner, and _understandably_ , in his opinion, Patrick wasn't thrilled about going over there...but Pete's gaze was still on him, wide and silently pleading.

 

Patrick sat on the fucking bench.

 

He was getting too obedient, shit-

 

"Han er engelsk, han- han forstår ikke-"

 

"I know he's English."

 

Patrick whined quietly at slow voice, or more specifically, the language the voice was speaking…and its words; those were pretty creepy too.

The creature's voice was laced with fake grandeur, that, coming from anyone else, would've made Patrick growl; But that scarred, burnt skin and the lack of eyes really did wonders in keeping him quiet.

"A great _prince_ , son of the great _king_ of Kent." The blind stare somehow moved to Pete, and that was more fucking terrifying than anything Patrick had seen it do so far.

It's voice was wheezed and laced with knowing, and smugness. "A very _rich_ kingdom." It laughed lowly, "But you know all about that, don't you?" It grinned, teeth dark and rotten under thin, pale lips. " _Pete_?"

 

Okay.

 

Patrick was officially done.

 

"Stay." Pete barked the order before Patrick had even gotten to his feet, and for some reason, in his terror and confusion, Patrick obliged. Okay. Really getting _way_ too obedient here, dude.

"I'm not here for him." Pete's voice was firm, and low and angry in a way Patrick hadn't heard before. The creature's grin didn't falter for a second, "So, _why_ are you here-

 

"You know why I'm here."

 

The smile slipped a little, but the thing- whatever the fuck it was, chuckled lowly. "Sit down. You're nervous-"

Pete scoffed lightly but obliged, eyes narrowed and shoulders tense as he stared forwards. The scarred man nodded and leaned back, head down and hands splaying jerkily on the table.

"The Gods do not favor you, as they once did-" Pete visibly bit his tongue, and despite the darkness, Patrick caught his hands curling into fists under the table.

 

"Yet."

 

His eyes raised, a little wider and holding a little more hope than before. The man nodded, leaning forwards slightly and crooking his head to the sides oddly. "You must…you must prove your devotion, for your actions will put…" A slow rotten grin spread over its face once more. " _Mistrust_ , in their hearts."

Pete's voice was heavy, as though he was choking something back. "What must I do?"

Its hands shifted blindly over the table, "For now…pray for their forgiveness." Pete's eyelids fluttered, and he rubbed a hand over his right temple. Patrick could only shift his eyes around nervously, from Pete, to Dog, to the carvings, to twelve weird stone carvings on a shelf-

"But, when the time comes…" The slow grin returned- only, it held something like a secret, this time. The man gave a low, guttural laugh.

 

"Show them no mercy."

 

Pete remained perfectly still for a moment, eyes locked and breathing steady.

  
Patrick had no fucking clue what was going on, but before he knew it, Pete was nodding him out of the house.

He followed eagerly, hardly glancing back at the lowly laughing man, before finally feeling the dim sunlight with a relieved sigh again. Patrick glanced up at Pete; he looked to be in thought, and Patrick watched his jaw writhe under his skin for a good few seconds before brown eyes flicked to his own.

 

"Try and keep up, alright engelskmann?"

 

Patrick tried to keep up.

 

He really did.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The bed was cold as shit without another body laying next to him, and Patrick hated that he missed said body.

He rolled onto his back with a heavy sigh, taking a moment to glare at Dog- who had taken to curling up at the foot of the bed and watching him with reflective eyes.

 

"What?"

 

It didn't make a sound; That was a weird thing about this so-called 'Dog', no barking, which led Patrick to believe Pete had made a serious species mis-categorisation here.

Patrick groaned and dropped back into his painstakingly crafted huddle of blankets, face scrunched up in irritation.

 

Why did Pete have to be so selfish? Why today? Why during nighttime, when it was coldest? Why couldn't he be a distant _dick_ during the daytime?

 

Patrick groaned quietly into the wool pressed to the side of his face, really trying to resign himself to not having an extra bundle of body heat next to him. It's okay, look- just, rub your hands together, like, grab more blankets, it'll be fine, you totally won't freeze or anything-

 

Fuck.

 

Patrick shot out of bed with a sharp, loud grunt. He stalked out of the bedroom, clumsily pulling on the closest boots he could find, because he was _not_ walking through stones barefoot, alright?

He stormed past the dying fire, which was only a huddle of glowing coals and embers by now, and made a beeline for the front door.

With a shove that took a little more out of him than it should've, Patrick stumbled outside with a tremulous inhale- which quickly devolved into a shiver at the cold night- wait.

 

Wait.

 

There were lights in the sky.

 

Okay.

 

This is not a drill.

 

There were lights. In the sky.

 

Glowing, waving, moving-

 

Green and blue, just like the sea-

 

Now _that_ wasn't normal, that wasn't- holy shit. Oh God. Jesus Christ-

 

Patrick couldn't stop staring, his jaw ached from hanging open, his eyes ached from refusing to blink. His whole body was slumped and lax as nothing but the lights and what the hell they were filled his brain, pushing out every logical or clever thought he may have had.

 

When he finally snapped out of it, his legs were aching from being locked in place for so long. He just about found the conviction to look away, but the moment he did, his gaze fell to a figure on the coast like it was magnetized.

The figure was only a silhouette in the dark light, but Patrick could just about tell it was sitting on the sand, only a short distance away from where the water was lapping the edges.

 

It was Pete.

 

It was dark, it was cold, there were weird lights in the sky, but somehow, Patrick _just_ _knew_ it was Pete.

 

"Guder bevare meg- Vennligst ikke-" That was Pete's voice, Patrick knew it too well by now to not recognize it through whistling breezes and whooshing waves. "Jeg lover dere- jeg lover. Faen, jeg er lojal- til _dere_ , _bare_ til dere. Jeg tror ikke på noen andre guder, dere _må vite_ -"

 

Pete's voice sounded broken, tremulous and pleading in that desperate way children begged to their parents.

 

"Jeg vet…Jeg vet at det kommer til å se _dårlig_ ut, men- Jeg skal ofre for dere. Jeg skal ofre så mange av dem for deg, jeg _lover_ -"

 

On shaky knees, Patrick stumbled forwards through grass, which quickly became loose sand, before fading into damp, hard sand instead.

He stood behind Pete for a moment, eyes locked on him firmly, but just as he'd forced his legs to move again-

 

"Why aren't you in bed, Patrick?"

 

Pete's voice was harder now, stern and firm; He didn't even spare Patrick a glance. "I uh- I-" -missed you, couldn't sleep without you…r _stupid fucking body heat_ , _son of a_ \- "Couldn't sleep."

There was a light huff, and it sounded more tired than annoyed.

Patrick took a seat next to Pete, wincing a little at the wet sand seeping through his clothes.

 

Why couldn't Pete go brood inside? Where it was warm? And, _dry_?

 

Pete was silent, eyes fixed on the horizon of the glowing sea and sky. Somehow, Patrick's eyes preferred staring at Pete rather than the fucking lights in the sky. That was weird. And concerning.

Patrick chewed on his lip a little, but, with a squint, found himself nudging Pete in the ribs softly. "So uh…what's up with these…" Patrick nodded at the lights, "things?"

 

"They're the Gods. The spirits of the dead. The shines of their-"

 

The dead- wait.

 

The Gods.

 

Okay.

 

The Gods.

 

The motherfucking Gods.

 

The pagan Gods- _Pete's_ Gods.

 

They were real.

 

Okay.

 

No, that was totally cool.

 

Patrick wasn't completely freaking out internally, or, questioning his entire life and upbringing right now- No, everything was totally fine.

 

Everything inside Patrick that had frozen all at once, slowly began to thaw as some kind of intelligence came back to him. He still stared at Pete with a blank face, however, and, soon enough, Pete's burning stare had moved to him, leaving the…the _Gods_ , behind.

 

"They're _real_?"

 

Pete nodded solemnly, eyelids fluttering over brown irises that had been lit up by blue and green- Holy shit, stop fawning over his eyes, dude-

Patrick cleared his throat and fixed his eyes back on the lights, or- the Gods, Patrick wasn't too sure- Fuck. He glanced back at Pete, blue eyes impossibly wide and voice stupidly childish.

 

"…Like, _really_ real?"

 

Pete snorted a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling like paper as he nodded. "Yes, _really_ real, Patr-"  
  
A sigh Patrick didn't even know he'd been holding left him like a tidal wave, stinging through his lungs and throat like a million wasps.

The lights were- Gods- oh fuck, but- they couldn't be anything else, nothing could- oh god, those Gods were real- shit, he'd been- his whole family- a fake god- oh lord, oh shit, oh fuck- "It was all fake- it can't- Pete- _Pete_ -"

Patrick had a fist curled into Pete's shirt before he'd even realized just how much of a mistake that should've been; Pete however, only stared back with soft eyes and the ghost of a smile.

 

"I- It- I…I-" Patrick could hardly make a coherent word, at this point. It felt like everything he'd learnt since childhood had been stripped away in a second, leaving him clueless, and vulnerable, and in a fucking tailspin, holy shit-

 

Then Pete's arm was around his shoulder, pulling him into his chest. Patrick let everything fall away to the back of his mind for a moment, eyelids fluttering, mouth sighing, and brain only finding the energy to focus on _warm_ -

 

Okay- no, this wasn't- "They can't be- no, wait-" Patrick pulled back, rocking up to his knees in the sand as Pete all but chuckled at him. Brow knitted, eyes narrowed, and finger pointed accusingly, Patrick shook his head. "No, look- it can't be- your gods can't be real, okay?"

 

"Why not?" Pete's voice was logical, calm, and soft…or, everything Patrick's _wasn't_ right now.

 

Brown eyes flicked up to the lights, or- the Gods- oh fuck, Patrick's brain was melting.

"B-Because, the- you're- you're pagans, and pagans- your uh- your gods aren't- it's blasphemy- you- look, the bible- Jesus, like- turned- he- he-"

 

Pete cupped one of Patrick's cheeks with his hand, fingers splaying over the back of his neck. Patrick couldn't- didn't want to- even fight away, he just leaned into them and tried to formulate a half-stringed argument. "Patrick-"

 

"But it _can't_ -"

 

"Look at them." Pete's voice was soft, and a shudder ran down Patrick's spine- although, he wasn't sure whether that was because of the hand, the voice, or the fucking cold night, fucking hell, couldn't have just stayed inside, Pete- "With your _own_ eyes."

Patrick stared at Pete's face with a parted mouth for a good few seconds, but as Pete dragged his eyes up to the lights again, Patrick's followed- as though they were puppets on a string.

 

A shiver, a gasp, and a burst of tension all beat through Patrick at the same time. His mouth was parted, his eyes were watering, and all his mind could do was repeat old prayers that were seeming vainer and vainer by the second.

Pete ran a thumb over his cheekbone, and yet, another shiver coursed through Patrick, making his eyes drop and his shoulders fall.

 

" _That_ is real." Pete's fingers stroked across the back of his neck, and Patrick fell back onto his heels with a thud, head still shaking vainly. "Can't- It _can't_ -"

 

"Why are you so sure your god is real, Patrick?" Pete's voice held no anger, or annoyance, or challenge- it was gentle, and slow, and coupled with the hand soothing through his hair at this point, Patrick could only shift closer with a mumble. "Bible says…the- the bible-"

"Old dusty words, in old dusty books." Patrick fell into Pete's chest, sighing in exhaustion as his mind reeled wildly. "Written by old, dusty men." Patrick whined unintelligibly, still trying to put up some kind of argument, that the lights rendered pointless.

 

"How do you know it's real?"

 

"It has to be." Patrick's words were only a gasp as he shook his head, eyes fluttering and spine shivering at the hand carding through his hair. "It- it can't be-"

 

"...Have you ever seen your god before?"

 

Patrick really wanted to say yes. He wanted to- to prove, to prove something to himself, to-

 

"No."

 

Wait- fuck. He shook his head quickly, leaning up and dropping his head into his hands with a tired sigh. "I- but, some people, have- I-"

 

"Some people have? And, what did they see?"

 

Patrick whined again; Fuck, nobody had actually seen God- they'd seen Jesus, like, twice, apparently, that's what the Pope and the cardinals said, anyway, but-

The sound of shifting damp sand made him pretty sure Pete had stood up. A hand tapping on his shoulder pretty much sealed that idea.

Patrick couldn't look up, however; He kept his face buried in his hands, wanting to avoid looking at the fucking things that were making him reconsider every rule he'd been taught his entire life.

 

"Patrick-"

 

"Just-" Patrick's hand grabbed Pete's wrist, tugging him down to the sand again.

He could pretty much feel Pete's confused stare, but he didn't let up; He gripped Pete's wrist like an anchor until he'd composed himself enough to actually be able to speak. Slipping his hand away, Patrick looked up, forcing any gasps or sobs to the pit of his lungs.

 

"Which ones are Gods?"

 

Pete blinked oddly, but cleared his throat lightly and shifted closer. He leaned forwards, and quickly pointed out a slowly shifting patch of glowing blue; Even through slow twists and turns, it patched out an eye. That was an eye- oh fuck, that was a goddamn eye if Patrick had ever seen it.

 

"That's Odin's eye."

 

Patrick shakily quirked an eyebrow, trying to keep his voice steady, despite the fact that his entire, familiar world was crumbling down around him, leaving nothing but uncertainty, and- Pete. Unfortunately.

 

"He only has one?"

 

Pete nodded slowly, before moving his gaze back to the huge, blue eye, staring down over the land as it slowly twisted into distortion. "He sacrificed an eye to Mimir." Patrick gaped at the eye, that had slowly twisted away to clash into a green stripe. "Why?"

Pete's answer was simple, and not what Patrick had expected in the slightest.

 

"For wisdom."

 

Wisdom.

 

Huh.

 

Patrick was pretty sure gods were supposed to be all-knowing, since, y'know, that's kind of what made them _gods_ , and everything.

But, when he put that to Pete, the man only chuckled, and Patrick found himself staring at the crinkles at the corners of his eyes for a few moments too long.

 

"The Gods had to learn what they know, engel."

 

"But-"

 

"They are alive, like us." Pete's smile was soft, and there was a confidence in his words that put the maelstrom in Patrick's chest to sleep. "They are born, they- learn, they marry, they have children, and- they will die."

Patrick froze. Okay, no- that wasn't- Gods couldn't die, that's what made them Gods. They were immortal and all that jazz, how the fuck was Patrick supposed to believe that-

He stared at Pete with a challenge in his eyes; He wasn't about to drop everything he knew because of some pretty candles in the sky- he knew what was real, he'd been taught it his entire life, he- he was _not_ , going to desert it now.

 

"How do your gods die?"

 

Pete smiled.

 

"That's a little too heavy for you right now, engel-"

 

"But-"

 

"They are alive, for now." Pete shrugged to his feet, holding a hand out to Patrick. The younger of the two stared at the hand for a moment, but sighed deeply and nodded, taking it and getting to his feet.

Patrick stared up at the lights for a moment, a shudder running over his spine at one that curled into something that looked like a bird's wing.

 

"Don't stare at them for too long."

 

Patrick's head snapped back to Pete, who only spared him a smile before moving back towards the house, but not without a last call at Patrick.

 

 

"They don't like it."

 

 

 


	5. Knowledge Is Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry about missing the update yesterday, I've had a hectic few days lol. Also, quick A/N about the languages, as of this point, Patrick's mostly learnt the language, so most of what would've been in Norwegian is now English. There may be a few words he won't get here or there, but as time goes on, it'll definitely show that he's fluent!

 

Pete had been pacing around the room for an hour.

 

His shoulders were tense, his teeth bit into his lip, and his eyes stuck down, gliding along the floor with every step he took.

 

Patrick tried not to sigh as he rubbed a hand over his face. He'd been here for way too long, just tagging along and watching Pete have a silent crisis all on his own.

He'd tried to talk to him, he'd tried chasing his gaze- he'd even cleared his throat a bunch of times, but no matter what he did, Pete kept pacing.

 

Patrick had really resigned himself to his fate at this point; Both at the pacing, and at the whole…situation.

There was no fucking way he could get home at this point, but despite that, Patrick had been… _enjoying_ , himself.

 

Crazy, he knew.

 

After Patrick had begrudgingly asked Pete to teach him his goddamn stupid- _his_ _language_ , things had gotten significantly easier.

Also, walking around after Pete through forest and over beach was getting easier too; His feet seemed to remember the way now, and they effortlessly lifted and dodged familiar rocks, roots and sticks. He'd even caught up to Dog a few times- and today, as they'd been walking towards town, making a beeline the huge building under the mountain, Patrick had _beat_ Dog there.

Patrick squinted over at the wolf- dog- at whatever the fuck it was, and let himself smile triumphantly; That's right motherfucker, you aren't the-

 

A shaky exhale from Pete cut his thoughts short, and in mere moments, all his focus was back on the pagan.

There was a golden hand soothing through his own hair now, messing the strands and making him look that much more disheveled.

 

Patrick raised his gaze for a moment, eyes crossing at the dizzy collections of carved beams that held the stave house up.

He really had no idea why they were here, Pete hadn't mentioned anything, and right about now, there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to being here.

Patrick glanced back at the chair- that he had promptly learned was actually a throne…didn't fucking look like one, but whatever. It wasn't like he was allowed to sit on it, so instead, he'd been leaning against a beam…for an hour.

 

Patrick really wished Pete would be more practical in his brooding.

 

Seriously, first it was sitting outside, on the beach, at night- and then it'd been climbing up to a fucking cliff and sitting on the edge; Mountains were _hard_ to scale, Patrick knew that firsthand now, thanks to Pete's shitty edgy habits, god-

And now, Patrick's legs ached from being locked in place for too long, but he couldn't start pacing too. The steady beating of Pete's soles against the wood were enough to make him lose his mind already, he couldn't very well _add to it_.

 

He was practically wincing at every step when the doors at the other end of the hall opened with a start.

The light flooded in like a tidal wave, pure white for only a second as eyes adjusted, leaving Patrick squinting and tense.

 

"There are- There are _Christians_ here- dude, what the fuck-"

 

As the white burst died down, Patrick just about made out coloured arms and curly hair; It was Joe, and he looked panicky.

He'd waved a greeting to Joe almost every morning at this point, seeing as they paced by his house close to daily.

 

Pete seemed to twitch all over, but he quickly raised his chin and nodded. "I'll be right there." Joe looked a little taken aback, perhaps at the lack of confusion or shock in Pete, but obliged and closed the doors with a nod, disappearing behind them.

 

Pete's eyes stayed on the door, his shoulders and hands stiff and curled, perfectly frozen for a good few, slightly concerning, minutes.

Patrick's eyes shifted side-to-side, gazing across the room, before he finally decided to do something more than cough and glare.

 

Without a word, Patrick moved towards Pete, stopping just shy of his side and hovering behind him for a moment.

A slight, nervous grimace worked its way onto his face as he raised a hand, seriously considering putting it on Pete's shoulder, all fueled by the hope that it'd calm him down some.

However, before Patrick's hand could even move an inch closer- Pete turned.

The brown eyes inches from his looked troubled, and they were all too familiar to Patrick nowadays.  
  
Pete had been this way for a while. Sure, he'd smile, and laugh, and do all the stuff he did before, but it always seemed to be tinted with something worried.

It would make his jaw clench when he wasn't paying attention, it would curl his fingers into fists when he was trying to sleep, it would send him into thousand-yard stares without a warning, and Patrick wasn't-

 

"Pete- what-"

 

Pete's hands slid onto the sides of his face, fingers firm but not hard, as such, against his cheeks. Patrick could hardly look away anymore, Pete's stern, burning eyes encapsulated every inch of his vision. "What's- Are you- are you okay?"

Pete's inhale was silent, but tremulous, but his voice was only a mumble- that wasn't all too convincing. "Fine. I'm fine." _Well, if that was actually true, you wouldn't be touching my face right now._

Patrick rolled his eyes, taking comfort in the move despite Pete holding his face- which was still fucking weird, Patrick wasn't over-

 

"Patrick?"

 

Patrick's eyes flicked to Pete's just in time to catch a vulnerable flash streaking through them, and with a, limited, shake of his head, Pete only kept speaking. "I'm- I'm gonna do, something, today. It's- the Christians, fuck- but- don't- please don't-" The words were lost in a frustrated grunt that made Patrick jump.

Okay, Patrick could only make out like, three, coherent words in the strings that followed, and truthfully, he was losing his patience a little quickly.

Patrick's brow pulled down, his eyes following as they narrowed. He grabbed the back of Pete's hands, curling his fingers around them and trying to tug them away. "Pete- c'mon, stop being weird-"

 

Pete squinted for a moment, eyes glazed over in something serious. Just as Patrick moved to either jerk away, or slap some sense into the guy holding his face like a fucking-

 

Pete was gone in an instant. Patrick's eyes blurred over as he shook his head, awkwardly chasing the figure that shoved out of the hall doors- Dog following obediently in his wake.

Weird, but- hell, Pete was weird. This place was weird- no, this whole _situation_ was weird. Patrick had just opted to keep telling himself that, to put his own mind at ease before he had a nervous breakdown or something.

  
With a curt nod to himself, and a light feeling of relief that the pacing had stopped, Patrick trailed outside, following the path he'd seen Pete walk down mere moments before…And what sat behind the carved doors was something Patrick had definitely, not been expecting.

 

Monks. And priests. And…sell-swords?

 

The townspeople were crowded beside the houses and stores, watching with nothing but disdain painted on their faces.  
Pete stood front and center, facing the monks, back turned to Patrick, and by his sides, were a few people he recognized and some he didn't.

Okay- Joe, and…Tyler- okay, Patrick knew _them_. That guy, with the…tall…ness? Shit, Patrick could hardly remember the name-

 

"We're…honored, to have you here."

 

Okay. Patrick was like, 79% sure he was hallucinating; Christians. There were Christians, here. And Pete was thanking them. For being there.

Patrick squinted as he took a careful step forwards, trying to stick to the huddle of people to his side, rather than trailing behind Pete again.

  
"And we're relieved that you, and the rest of your…pagan, friends, have decided to embrace the word of the Lord, for he is-" The words kept trailing into those old, nonsensical speeches Patrick had heard behind an altar many, many times, but rather than coaxing 'amen's from their audiences, now, they were only responded by silence and dark stares.

Pete kept his nerve, despite the glares being sent his way. "Yes, well," He cleared his throat quietly, eyes shifting to the sides as they caught the frantic stares from his friends.

Joe's brow was furrowed, and he kept sharing glances with another man next to him; That same guy with the colours on his arms Patrick had seen once or twice around town, yeah, his name was definitely-

 

"I uh…I hope you can, begin your, constructions, soon." The words were practically choked out, spoken with a strain so heavy it sounded like Pete's vocal chords were about to tear in two.

  
The tall man, and the shorter, Northumbrian one, watched with blanker faces than the others, somewhat suspended in surprise.

Tyler, however, looked surprised too. Or, more like, _shocked_. And on the brink of stabbing himself. Or the monks. Or Pete. He was twitching with every breath one of the Christians took, and he was taking his sweet time to glower murder at any of them.

And, while the dark stares had been reserved for Pete and the priests until now, without a word or warning, the sharp brown eyes snapped towards Patrick.

Patrick could practically feel the daggers in the side of his head as he looked away, chewing on his tongue, and focusing his eyes on Pete as Tyler's burned into him. He was angry, Patrick could feel it; And, honestly, Tyler could go fuck himself- what blame did Patrick have in any of this? Besides, Patrick found it hard to believe Tyler didn't know about this, he and Pete- and, just about everyone else, were all usually in on his plans-

 

"Ah yes. And, for _your_ sake, we hope they'll be completed sooner."

 

One of the priests smiled along with his words, with that exact same fake politeness that had haunted Patrick since his goddamn birth until now. Or well, until, he'd been dragged off to the 'north'; Not many people bothered with fake smiles and words here.

Pete motioned two men over, giving them a brief instruction Patrick could hardly hear over the distance. But, as they, begrudgingly, led the Christians away, Patrick could just about guess.

 

The second they were almost out of sight, voices exploded in chatters, and glares got harsher.

 

Patrick craned his neck to watch them walk away, just catching the sell swords at the back of the pack as they did.

They looked just like the priests back home, what the hell were they doing here? And- more importantly, why were they not getting hanged? Was Patrick missing something here? It really felt like he was missing something here.  
  
Pete's friends all turned to him in a second, eyes and voices snapping like elastic.

 

"What _the hell_ are you doing-"

"Have you, like, actually gone crazy- or?"

"Dude- what are you-"

"Think about this, think about what you're doing here, it's not-"

 

"Patrick."

 

Pete's word was loud enough, and firm enough to put haste in Patrick.

"He did this. Didn't he?" Tyler's glare was as dark as his words, but with a blankness he wasn't sure how the fuck Pete was mustering- he said nothing.

Pete ignored the questions, the stares, the glares, the glowers- and just carefully pushed through the crowds, pacing away to the edge of the town with a look of stone on his face.

Patrick followed quickly, while trying- and probably failing, at keeping his moves calm. He could feel more and more glares branding into his back; Shit, and something like…guilt was creeping up on him. That was…weird. And unearned, in his opinion. Seriously- he hadn't, this- this wasn't his fault, right?

And- Tyler had…Wait, no- Patrick hadn't been trying to _turn Pete Christian_ \- fuck, if anything, it'd been the other way around. Pete had been the one trying to charm him with sky lights, and, cool stories, and shit. Patrick hadn't been preaching about- Eden, or Hell, or-

 

Fuck. Patrick didn't know anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shit. Pete was quiet. Way too quiet.

 

They'd managed to escape the town well enough, but that had left them both pacing home through a quiet, forest edge.  
Patrick's eyes shifted at the trees, squinting slightly at the darker depths; He still didn't trust forests, those 'trolls' Pete had mentioned didn't sound fun.

 

...Sure, he had no idea what the fuck they were, but that didn't mean Patrick was taking the warning lightly.

 

They'd pushed past the boundary of the trees, and had finally reached Pete's house- or, _their_ , house, was it?

Patrick didn't know; He'd been living there for what felt like a lifetime now, but- it still felt-

 

Pete shoved the doors closed with a little too much force, in Patrick's opinion. He jumped, but held his tongue as Pete crashed down into a bench with a sigh, folding his knees and smothering his face in his hands.

 

  
Patrick considered making a joke about, _door abuse_ , or something, but…

 

Pete's breathing was uneven, and the way the ridge of his ribs moved under his sweater was, concerning, to say the least.

Maybe…maybe this wasn't the time for jokes.

Patrick chewed the inside of his cheek, distracting himself by gazing around the room he already knew like the back of his hand.

 

…But, his eyes were always unfairly drawn to Pete, and within seconds, they landed back on the silent man like he was a target.

 

With a chew of his lip, Patrick crept forwards with silent steps, and took a seat on the bench across the dying fire.

His eyes lingered over the fighting flames, battling a log that was already more ember than wood.

That fire had been his goddamn lifesaver on the first day here; He'd felt like he was slowly freezing to death at some sadistic, fucked up rate, but, then the fire had saved him. Turns out it saved a lot of people. Sure, the Northmen were a little less, sensitive, to cold, but- even they froze, every now and then.

 

The first time Patrick had seen Pete's teeth chatter…fuck, that had definitely been a revelation.

 

His eyes shifted back over to Pete. He was still silent, his face was still hidden in his hands, and, Dog's whines were having zero effect on him; Great to know.

Patrick sighed; Great, now he just had to get this mute to speak, awesome. He cocked his head a little. Maybe, just asking him, what it'd been about would…wait, no, maybe not.

 

While Patrick couldn't be sure what exactly was swimming through the pagan's mind, he assumed it couldn't be anything good; Those stares, those chatters, those questions- it hadn't looked…easy.

He shouldn't- fuck, as much as the curiosity was fucking killing him right now…he had to be… _understanding_. Fantastic.

 

"Pete?"

 

There was no answer. Great. Just as expected.

Patrick held back a sigh and exhaled quietly instead, keeping his eyes trained on golden hands and dark hair, whilst vainly staring at the hidden face.

Okay. He needed to try another approach here; Pete, probably didn't want to be asked about…that, right now, so- he just, he had to-

 

Okay. Patrick could do this.

 

He had to do this.

 

"What uh- what are those marks, on your arms?"

 

There was silence. Patrick stifled another sigh as he let his head drop. Shit, that hadn't worked either. Well, what the fuck was he supposed to do-

 

"What?"

 

Wait. Patrick glanced upwards so quickly it made his vision spin, and- holy shit. Pete was looking at him. Finally, Jesus Christ- took him long enough- "The- the marks, on your, arms?"

 

Pete blinked, cocking his head against the wood and thunking his forehead in the process. Aw, that was- nope, that was not…cute- No. Not today- or, ever, it wasn't-

  
"They're ashes, we uh- we," Pete's brow furrowed as he pulled a sleeve back, showing off an entire black sleeve of those weird drawings…that he might finally get to the bottom of, thank god- Wait. _Ashes_? Holy shit-

 

"You were _born_ with ashes in your skin?"

 

Pete took one look at Patrick's horrified face, and snorted a braying laugh that quickly melted Patrick's shock down into irritation. Okay, but seriously- how did the ashes get in there, then? Seriously, Patrick couldn't even-

  
"No- we- _oh gods_ , no, we uh-" Pete held up a hand and took a moment to giggle the last of it out, while Patrick watched with a blank, unimpressed face.

Whistling out a sigh, Pete finally leaned up to sit, and shifted to lean forwards, holding an arm out over the tiny, dying fire.

Patrick leant forwards, eyes a little wider than he'd of liked them to be. They definitely looked like ashes, now that he thought about it; Dark, but faded into golden skin.  
It was all marked in the same way the carvings were whittled; Bold lines, dark pictures, and all faded and worn into his skin.

The drawings themselves were everything from a snake biting it's own tail, to linked triangles, to chain mail, to a tree. Ships, hammers, eyes, and old, round calendars all staked their claims on patches of skin, and Patrick hardly noticed Pete slowly twisting his arm, until his palm was facing Patrick.

 

"So, you weren't born with these?" Pete shook his head, only catapulting a thousand more questions into Patrick's head; Most notably: _Why_.

"How…how do- or, how did you…?" Pete smiled, huffing quietly as Patrick took his wrist into a pale hand, pulling the limb a little closer. "We uh- take, needles, you know, _needles_?"

 

Fuck that.

 

Already, fuck that.

 

Patrick didn't even need to hear the rest, just, fuck that.

 

"And we uh- stab it in, I guess? Uh- we…" A slow smile spread over Pete's face at the horror on Patrick's. "Okay. So, just to- get this straight," Patrick squinted at the marks on Pete's arm, then over at the ones peeking out under his sweater. Huh, he wondered what _those_ were. "You. As a people-" He pressed his hands together, squinting at an already giggling Pete. "Stab ashes into your skin. With needles."

Pete nodded wordlessly, too busy choking on stifled laughter. Patrick squinted again. "And you do that, collectively. It's not just, one crazy guy."

 

Another nod, another squint. "You people are fucking insane."

 

One of Pete's neglected laughs finally burst free with a wheeze, and he tensed his arm, holding the forearm out for Patrick to see. "It's just-" One look at Patrick's blank stare, and he collapsed into laughter again.

With a sigh, Patrick leant forwards. Fine, no harm in looking at these crazy people's markings, it was totally normal, yeah, whatever. "And uh- what- what are, these? Like, the, drawings, I mean."

 

Pete hummed and twisted his arm until his elbow pointed upwards, and until the snake biting its own tail was in ashed over his bicep in plain sight. He dragged the skin with his free fingers, letting Patrick watch the picture distort for only a second, before snapping back into place attentively. "That's Jörmungandr- I uh- I told you about him, right?"

Patrick quirked an eyebrow, making sure every one of his features poured sarcasm like a waterfall. "The giant snake Loki- _a man_ , gave birth to? The giant snake that lives in the sea and bites its own tail?"

Pete chuckled lowly, but nodded. Patrick only huffed and rolled his eyes; Honestly, the pagans thought the world was round, that was so fucking stupid.

 

Like, a snake biting its own tail circled a round earth? A tree growing on top of it all? Sure buddy, Patrick preferred to listen to the scientists, but whatever.

 

"And, what about…" Patrick turned Pete's arm, before pointing at two wolves chasing the sun and the moon down, jaws wide open, and eyes dark. "These?"

Pete glanced up to Patrick for a second before his eyes were on the wolves, "Sköll and Hati. The one who mocks, and the one who hates." Patrick scoffed lightly, a smile on his face despite himself. "Great role models to have on your skin, Pete."

Pete seemed to take no offense at this point; Any time Patrick rolled his eyes, scoffed, or made a smart comment, the pagan would only laugh and grin.

Patrick found that endearing. Kinda.

Well, it was just, unexpected. Nobody had ever really…put up, with his attitude, before. His parents and his teacher's had had a tendency to try and beat it out of him- but hey, understandable; Patrick could be a little shit sometimes, he was aware of it.

 

"Just because they're assholes doesn't mean they aren't important."

 

Patrick wondered if Pete was a psychic. He squinted lightly, but hoped to play off his flash of shock with a scoff and a sarcastic chuckle. "Great logic there, pal."

  
Patrick turned the arm a little more, skipping past chain mail, and ships, and axes, since those were pretty self explanatory, before reaching something he really hadn't expected on Pete. "A tree? What, do you suddenly love nature?"

Pete chuckled again, eyes crinkling at their corners and, annoyingly, coaxing a smile from Patrick too. "Askr Yggdrasils, a tree that-" He glanced up at Patrick, brown eyes practically waiting for a snarky quip. "Connects the nine worlds."

Patrick only squinted slightly, really trying to surprise Pete by holding back a comment, but goddammit he was too fucking sarcastic for his own- " _Nine_ worlds? Seriously?"

Pete only tossed his head back with an ugly laugh, drawing his arm back and taking a moment to stare over the dying fire.

 

"What's on your other arm?"

 

Pete held out his right arm, and the first thing that struck Patrick were those fucking linked triangles he'd been seeing everywhere. He took the wrist in his hand, as he'd done before, and quickly pointed at them with a squint up at Pete. "What are _these_? I keep seeing them everywhere, and-"

"The Valknut." Pete clicked his tongue, eyes shifting in that way they did when he was at a loss for words to say; Sometimes because English was hard, and sometimes just because he, plain didn't know what the hell to say.

 

"It's the…the transition, between life and death."

 

Patrick sighed. Heavily. And Pete only scoffed a laugh as the sarcasm flowed freely once again. "How is three triangles supposed to represent the complex, long- oh, and _fucking exhausting_ journey between life and death- alright, fuck it, what's this horse, or whatever."

He pointed at, what kinda looked like a horse, only with eight legs and a seriously angry face. "Slepnir. Odin's horse."

Patrick's eyes lit up; He recognized that one. "Wait, that was the…that was the other, thing, Loki gave birth to, right?" Pete nodded, y'know, as though a guy giving birth to a horse was totally okay. "…What is it with that guy and having weird babies?"

Pete only shrugged through a laugh, "God of Mischief, he's doing weird stuff, I guess." Patrick hummed noncommittally and squinted. "I don't know, I feel like there's a line, and giving birth to a snake is the line, y'know?"

Pete tutted and nodded again, drawing his arm back and pulling his sleeve back down. "I'm not arguing with you there, engel."

 

 

He leant back into the bench, eyes quickly clouding over in something worried again- shit, Patrick had to keep his thoughts off of…town. "Uh- hey?"

Pete's eyes flicked upwards, but he kept silent. Patrick couldn't be deterred, not now. "Uh…what- what was up with that guy? You know in uh- in that dark house, like, last week?"

Pete chuckled lowly but shrugged lightly, nodding with a knowing smile on his face. "That was the Seer. I uh- I should've known it would, freak you out, a little, but-"

"How did he know who I was?" Honestly, however the scarred guy knew his name and where he was from had been eating him alive over the last week; Seriously, it wasn't- normal, or- god, Patrick hardly knew what to expect from these people at this point-

 

"Gossip spreads quickly in small towns, Patrick."

 

Oh.

 

Okay.

 

That made sense.

 

"Oh." The sound was tiny, and high…and embarrassing. And it only doubled in the latter when Pete's laugh mingled with two words that suspiciously sounded like 'So cute'; Oh yeah, that motherfucker couldn't hide behind his groan-y language anymore, the more you know bitch-

 

"Wait, so- what does he actually do?"

Pete sighed and crossed his arms, "He uh- talks to the Gods, for us. Tells us what they're thinking, what they, have in store." He sighed quietly, eyelids drooping a little. "Takes years of training, and- yeah."

Patrick nodded with a hum, eyes darting around as he desperately tried to think up more questions that steered clear of 'the Gods'; Shit, this might've been venturing back into 'don't talk about what happened in town' territory, he really had to just-

 

Oh. Nice one. Or, maybe not so nice for Patrick, but it'd definitely distract Pete.

 

"Why do you- _Shit_ , why-" Patrick's teeth clamped down on the abused, ragged inside of his cheek for a second, before he forced his eyes back to Pete.

 

"Why did you take me? Instead of my, sister, I mean."

 

A slow smile spread over Pete's features, and Patrick knew he'd won. Kinda. This might not be too fun for him, but what the hell, Pete might enjoy it.

 

"Well, I'm not too sure, actually."

  
  
Wait.

 

Hang on.

 

...What?

 

'Not sure', that fucking pagan was grinning, oh, he knew _exactly_ why- Excuse you, mother-

 

"I just thought it might be funny, y'know?"

 

Funny? Ripping him away from his family, oh and- his entire life, was funny? Fuck this guy-

 

A yawn wracked through Pete, making his shoulder blades roll and pop as he tensed and stretched with it. When his eyes fluttered open once more, he squinted over at Patrick with a tiny smile, before rocking to his feet and pacing away without a word.

That was their routine nowadays; If you were tired, go the fuck to bed. No good nights, no cutesy shit, just go sleep, and if the other person wants to follow- so be it.

 

And, just this one time, Patrick was totally tired too. Totally. Tired…Yeah. There totally still weren't birds singing, or, there totally wasn't any daylight, outside, nope. Patrick was...all tuckered out. Yep.

 

Patrick could really see the appeal of having no windows now; You could just pretend it was nighttime, all the time. Truly revolutionary. For how backwards these people were, they sure were visionaries in laying in bed until noon.

Patrick shrugged lightly to himself as he followed the path blazed by Pete; Hey, at least he hadn't been kidnapped by pagans who liked getting up at sunrise every morning, right? If he had to pick his poison, pagans who didn't mind sleeping through an entire day were totally his best bet here.

 

He followed with a sigh, pushing through the bedroom doors to find Pete already curled up in a blanket. A blanket. A, singular, blanket.

It was still a mystery to Patrick how Pete didn't freeze alive every night, but who was he to question this guy's ways, right?

 

He took a moment to glare at Dog, who was firmly laying in his own spot at the foot of the bed.  
  
That fucking wolf- or dog, always, ' _accidentally_ ', stood on his leg, or his stomach. And not to mention, almost killed him every single time. Okay, maybe he was being dramatic, but he SWORE he had paw shaped bruises because of that fucking animal-

 

"Patrick stop glaring at my dog and come to bed."

 

…Fine.

 

He dropped into bed next to Pete and hated the way his lips quirked at the low chuckle Pete gave.

Goddammit, he felt like he had a fucking weak spot here. He really needed to fix it, toughen it up, because shit, he, of all people, could not have a fucking weak spot, for Pete, of all people.

He made a note to enforce that 'get independent' idea he'd been chanting to himself for weeks now; he really needed to put it into action, lest he stay Pete's lapdog for the rest of his fucking life-

 

Patrick yelped quietly as Pete's arm curled around his waist, pulling him close and _warm_ \- No, fuck- Patrick was letting temperature dictate his life lately, that wasn't-  
Pete's free arm slid under his head, and Patrick sighed, falling boneless and pretty much melting in _warm_ -

 

Fuck this place.

 

He was never this bothered about being _warm_ in Kent.

 

He sniffed, furrowing his brow and desperately trying to convince himself that he did not approve. Wait, no- he totally wasn't trying to _convince_ , himself, he _didn't_ approve of this-

 

Pete nuzzled into his neck.

 

Okay.

 

Fine.

 

Patrick could admit defeat when it came.

 

He sighed, somewhere between contentedness and irritation, and brought his knees up to his chest, tugging the mountain of blankets towards himself.

Look, y'know what? This was totally okay, this wasn't weird at all; Just two dudes being warm, totally normal- okay, fuck it, probably not normal but Pete was a living fire right now, and he was _not_ crawling away from it.

 

 

Patrick's eyes had started slipping, and his mind had started blanking into sleep, when a distant knock reached the room.

Both of them came fully awake with groans and sighs, only to squint angrily at the door- chasing the general direction of sound.

 

"Wha'sthat?" Patrick turned with the incoherent words, sleepily burying his face in Pete's shoulder and throwing an arm across his ribs. Pete hummed, and the smaller of the two copied it at the rumble it sent through his chest. This guy was _too_ warm, this was a crime-

 

Another knock, along with a distant, buzzing sound of: _"Hello? Are you there? We need to talk to you."_

Pete groaned in an instant, dropping his head back into the pillow and tugging a free blanket over their heads, hiding them away from the knocks and voices.

Patrick nuzzled into Pete's clothed collarbones idly, humming through words that hardly made any sense to his ears, but that his brain had deemed totally fucking acceptable to put out there. "Who'sat thewood- doors, things?"

Pete groaned in a reply, burying his face in Patrick's shoulder. "Ignore it."

 

More knocks, more voices; _"Pete- is that what he called you- fuck. Alright fine, 'Pete'- this is important." "Pete- they're trying to build churches, this is serious-" "Did you fucking tell them to do this? Did your pet christian convince you to-"_

 

 

"…You sure you don't wanna go answer?"

 

Pete only squeezed Patrick closer.

 

"Nope."

 

 

 


	6. The Red Sea

 

"Patrick?"

 

Patrick turned towards Pete, finding a slightly sheepish smile and lowered shoulders. He looked nervous, way more nervous than Patrick had ever seen him. "I uh- I have to go, but you can, just- hang, around."

  
Patrick nodded, and, with a crane of his neck, he knew exactly why Pete looked so painfully sheepish.

 

Joe, Tyler, and the other colourfully marked man he'd seen here and there, all stood at the great hall's doors; Arms folded, eyes focused, and postures anything but happy.

 

Patrick grimaced, before offering Pete a sympathetic smile and a clap on the shoulder. "Good luck, Pete."

Pete's eyes flashed with something truly grateful, before falling back into pure nerves and speaking with a whisper. "Thanks."  
  
Pete looked like a man on his way to the Tower of London as he trudged over to the great hall, no doubt greeting the other three with a tiny smile that already pleaded forgiveness.

 

The doors closed behind them, and Patrick gave an involuntary wince. Shit, Pete was not gonna have a good time in there, he was sure of it.

But hell, standing around outside would literally do nothing to help. No, instead, Patrick would try and get…independent.

 

Yes, he had been way too attached to Pete for weeks now. He'd been in this place for just shy of a month, and he'd spent the majority of that time in Pete's house. Sure, it wasn't too bad, Pete was a nice guy, kinda, but- Patrick didn't want to be tethered. He couldn't be stuck. Not to Pete, of all people.

 

With a shake of his head, Patrick paced away, hardly paying attention to his direction and following dirt roads instead.

Wandering around aimlessly had really become a staple for him, at this point. It wasn't like he had anything else to do, and he was not risking a walk back through the forest just to get back home- screw that. Shit, he'd just have to-

 

Hammering. Patrick's brow pulled down as he glanced up to his side, finding a ridge, and, those two fighters from weeks ago- Brendon and Dallon, if he remembered right.

 

But beyond it all, however, was a _church_.

 

Or, the beginnings of a church anyway; Clear wood skeleton, rope, nails- all trying to secure the bones of the newest 'House of God'.

The workers looked like ants from where Patrick stood.

 Some darted around with nails and hammers, and others lumbered in pairs, carrying slats of wood over their shoulders.  
  
Patrick's eyes shifted up towards the church itself, or- well, the beginnings, of the church.

It was a basic skeleton, all hard wood and ropes for the moment, but soon, it'd start looking like a real building. And that made Patrick feel worse than it should've. It was disconcerting to see here, almost as though that temporary stick cross didn't _belong_ here.

Patrick's steps were uncharacteristically cautious as he paced forwards, ignoring any lingering stares that stuck onto his back like leeches.

 

But, apparently, he wasn't the best at being sneaky.

 

Dallon glanced over his shoulder, blue eyes falling wide and mouth parting in a long-suffering sigh. "Oh gods- Patrick, take over for me." He groaned and shifted away from the other, shorter man, making space for Patrick between them.

Cutting through Brendon's complaints and whines, the taller shook his head, leaning back to grab Patrick by the wrist and pull him down to sit with them.  
  
Patrick wasn't the strongest dude out there, and, seeing as he had nothing better to do, might as-

 

"He's been fawning all over a Christian all day- I'm losing my mind, Gods-"

 

Brendon, however, only squinted at Dallon, before turning to Patrick with wide, convincing brown eyes. "Look, I am _totally_ justified here-"

 

"You're justified in staring and talking about a guy all day?"

 

"I _am_ \- dude, Patrick- look." Brendon thrust out a pointing finger, jabbing it over the ridge where their legs hung from, and down towards the small clearing where workers darted back and forth around the structure.

 

Patrick did his best to squint, but- fuck, his eyesight had always been shitty. Through Brendon's enthusiastic, ' _Right fucking there, dude_ 's, Patrick eyes eventually snapped onto the target, for want of a better word.

 

Nervous doe eyes, skinny, and pale. A mop of brown hair, and shiny irises to match. His shoulders were hunched awkwardly as he stood away on the sidelines, hands curled around what looked like a bible.

 

Brendon was completely taken.

 

"He's, adorable, I swear-"

 

"Patrick." Patrick glanced over at Dallon at the feel of his hand clapping on his shoulder, "I've been dealing with this, _all day_."

Another hand on his other shoulder, and Brendon's pleading eyes in his field of view. Patrick barely had time to process his own questions right now, let alone-

"Patrick- look, isn't he," He turned his gaze back to the nervous priest, sheepishly glancing around with no real purpose. "the most cute thing-"

 

"That grammar is completely wrong, and you know it-"

 

"LOVE DOESN'T NEED CORRECT GRAMMAR, _DALLON_."

 

Dallon only sighed again, dropping back onto his hands with a defeated shake of his head, while Brendon decided to keep winning- or, trying, to win Patrick over to his very…opinionated, side-

 

"He's adorable, is my point. Look- you see him, right Patrick? I'm not just exaggerating, he's-" Brendon's face dropped into a squint as he cocked his head, "Well, nah- I guess he's not really your type, right?"

 

No, that would be correct. Patrick's type was women. Like, _every man's_ , was. He…actually had no idea how Brendon was pretty much professing his-

 

"Your type's short, dark and handsome right?"

 

Like, _Pete_ , he meant? _Wait_ \- no, Pete wasn't handsome, he totally didn't find him h- oh fuck- that was _not_ \- oh fuck, he was laughing, _nO_ -

 

"But, like, back on topic-"

 

Patrick barely managed to croak out a recovery before Brendon had launched into his case again, getting more and more frenzied with each moment Patrick didn't interject and pull him back down to Earth, the way he assumed Dallon had.

 

"You know what? I'm gonna make a move, yeah- that's what I'm gonna do, that's it, that's a great idea- I gotta get in there before-" Brendon turned his fiery, enthusiastic gaze back on Patrick, "That's a good idea right? Like, Dallon- stop fucking laughing, it's a good idea-"

 

With a shake of his head, Patrick's voice had decided to make a reappearance, and words were toppling out of his mouth before he could even stop them anymore.

 

"I mean- I don't know, dude." Patrick smiled sympathetically down at the priest; He knew what it was like to be that nervous, that afraid of everything around you. Everything was so foreign, and alien here, it was nothing like home.

He tried a glance up at Brendon with a shrug, "I mean, you're Northumbrian, right? So, don't you remember what it was like to be new here?"

 

Brendon's face burst into a belated grin, and he nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah dude! It was awesome!"

 

What.

 

Patrick blinked oddly, face scrunching up in confusion, and only contorting as Brendon kept reeling off bouncy words that matched his beam perfectly.

 

"Oh gods- it was _amazing_. Like, the mountain and shit, the sea was so fucking _blue_ , like- Oh and, like, there were swords, _everywhere_ \- and axes, dude! I didn't even know axes were a thing! Well, like, for fighting, I mean. Like, I knew about woodcutting and all that, but- like, it was the best thing ever, it was _ages_ ago now but- why are you looking at me like that dude, what's up-"

 

"You-" Patrick's jaw hung open like an anchor, and snapping it shut seemed pretty much impossible. "You weren't, _scared_?"

 

Brendon scoffed loudly, but there was no real venom behind it. " _No_ , dude." He shook his head, brow furrowed and eyes incredulous. "I- Back there, I was just gonna, _die a monk_ \- I didn't wanna live like that. Celibacy and chores, _pfft_ \- screw that."

 

Wait.

 

Brendon, was- _had been_ , a monk?

 

An actual, sworn brother of the church?

 

Really?

 

…Fuck?

 

This day was just getting more and more surreal, holy shit- " _You_ were a _monk_?"

 

Brendon nodded quickly, "Uh huh- from Lindisfarne."

 

Lindisfarne.

 

Why did that sound familiar?

 

Patrick, remembered it, from _something_ , but-

 

"' _The first place to be attacked by the Northmen_ '." Brendon informed in a stern, wizened voice, before breaking out back into cheeriness.

 

Oh. That made sense.

 

Patrick shook his head slowly, still logged by bewilderment. "So, what happened to you?"

 

"I'm gonna take that as a compliment-"

 

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Sure, whatever."

 

"And uh…well, I uh- I woke up in the monastery one day, and we were doing our chores, or whatever." Brendon leaned back on his hands, eyes squinting in contemplation out at the trees on the mountains.

"I was, fetching water. And, uh- I'm at the well, just pulled up the last bucket, and I- I'm really tired, y'know? So, I stretch a little, look around, and then, this guy- I think his name was Daniel, or something, I don't really remember."

Brendon chewed on his lip, voice falling a little more reverent, and eyes glazing over as though he was back on Lindisfarne's sandy shores. "He's, hysterical. Like, screaming, freaking out, runs through the gates like a crazy person. Says he saw 'The Great Beast' in the sea, so…" A small smile spread over Brendon's face once again.

"Me, being a curious piece of shit-"

 

" _Faen_ _bror_ , first smart thing you've said all day-"

 

"Oh shut up Dallon-" The words were snorted through a burst of laughter, but before Patrick had time to process the smile's falter, the calmer voice had returned, shoving the jovial one out into the cold. "I went out, to look, y'know?" He glanced at Patrick softly, voice falling more gentle than he'd ever actually heard it. "I wanted to see it."

Patrick nodded softly. Sure, that wasn't what he would've done; He probably would've gone and hid under a bed, not walked out to see- what they had assumed was, Satan himself. "Understandable."

 

Something grateful flicked over Brendon, but with a quick shake of his head, his brown eyes were back on the doe-eyed Christian. "So, I…I saw this, this monster, in the sea." His nose wrinkled, voice lowering to something reminiscent of a hiss. "Head like a _snake_ , bright cloth _wings_ , steel-capped, colourful _scales_."

 

His eyes shifted back over at Patrick, a jovial smile playing on the corners of his lips. "Or, y'know, _a longship_." Patrick's mouth parted in a soft 'o', a spark of unspoken realization jolting through him.

Brendon nodded and leant back once more, focus crossing his features.

"Well, uh- long story short, they broke the gates, killed a bunch of people, took the gold- and uh-" A grin burst over his face, eyes flicking back at Patrick. "I was lucky enough to…be a slave, instead of uh- getting drowned, or, axed-"

 

"Really-"

 

"Or decapitated, or, drawn and quartered, or beaten to death-"

 

"Yeah, I uh- I get the picture, Brendon."

 

Brendon smiled apologetically at Patrick's wrinkled nose. He was squeamish, had always been and would always be, he suspected. Anything from mud to bugs to blood- and Patrick was very definitely _out_.

 

"Uh- well, after that, all the loot got split up, and everyone went back home. I lucked out with this place, but Hróarr was still Jarl, at that point." Patrick's brow raised; Sure, Pete had mentioned that he'd usurped the throne from that- Hróarr, guy- but, he'd never heard the story. And thankfully, Brendon liked the gory details. Or, well, Patrick's stomach wasn't so thankful, but hey-

"He took it all, and gave out like, two things, for each person that had _actually_ gone, y'know?" Brendon hummed, picking at the fabric on his knee idly. "Like, pretty much everyone chose gold and stuff, but Pete, uh- that's what you call him right- yeah, well, Pete chose _me_."

 

Pete…chose, _Brendon_?

 

That…was- that made something harsh twist in the pit of Patrick's stomach.

 

It wasn't unlike anything he'd felt before; The first time had been that time the baker had given his brother like, a whole fucking back of sweets, but _oh no_ , _Patrick didn't get any, because he was a little kid_ -

 

Alright, Patrick was still bitter about a bag of sweets from when he was four, good to know, but-

 

Fuck.

 

It felt like jealousy.

 

He was screwed.

 

Completely and utterly- 100% screwed.

 

"So, after that, he took me to this house, and we met up with like, everyone else. Like, Dallon, Joe, Tyler, Andy-" Andy- that must've been the guy with the colours on his arms. But, it didn't sound very 'Northman'-

 

"I changed a bunch of people's names, I couldn't pronounce 'em, so-"

 

Okay, that made sense. Patrick could...kinda relate.

 

"Anyway, they uh- they made a plan to overthrow the guy, and Pete was like, ' _Hey, you're, not a priest, anymore. It doesn't count here, or whatever_ '." Wow, that was the worst impression Patrick had ever heard.

"And like, he gave me to Dallon, told him like ' _Yo, teach him how to fight, we need people, just in case shit goes wrong_ ', y'know?"

 

Yes. Patrick did know. But he was too focused on the maelstrom in his stomach to fully answer Brendon, so he settled for a nod. The swirling was dying out, fading at the revelation that, no, Pete hadn't kept Brendon the way he'd kept _Patrick_.

'Kept', fuck he sounded like a pet, and worst of all, he actually _lik_ -

 

"Well, like- they all fought each other, and the guy who won had to fight, the other guy." He nodded idly, eyes falling back on the nervous monk by the skeleton church.

"Pete won- beat everyone, so he fought him. And, just- oh my Gods dude," And there was the old Brendon; A grin was stretched on his mouth, and his eyes held a psychotic glimmer as he described the sheer amounts of blood with glee.

 

 

"-and, finally, after all this shit, like, Pete's _leg_ is fucked up, but Hróarr's totally fine- 'cause like, he's a strong dude. But everyone's like, ' _Shit. Pete's gonna die, and then the Jarl's gonna execute us all for planning shit_ ' like- a total fucking mess."

His eyes brightened, fingers clicking as he stared at Patrick intently, the pictures almost dancing in his eyes. Patrick was, weirdly, a little too invested here, eyes wider than he'd of liked them to be, and jaw hanging loosely as he waited for what would no doubt be the epic victory-

 

"And then, Hróarr fuckin'- slices Pete across the chest."

 

Okay, so…not…a victory? Was Pete dead? Oh shit, had he been hallucinating him this entire time- wait, no, that couldn't-

 

"Pete drops to his knees, blood's pouring out of his mouth, everyone's _completely_ silent."

Brendon's eyes were still alight, his voice was still low, and animated. "Hróarr's a pretty showy-off guy, and he wanted to make an example out of him, y'know? A kind of, ' _Don't mess with me_ ' kinda thing. He'd been known to feed people to his dogs when he was young, so everyone was-"

 

Patrick…couldn't really understand how Pete had won this. It seemed so hopeless, and-

 

"But, he goes over, puts his sword against Pete's neck. Pete looks up, like, completely exhausted, bloody as hell, just- _about to die_." A slow grin tugged at the corner's of Brendon's mouth.

 

"And, just as the Jarl's reeling back to cut his neck, Pete slices Hróarr's _wrist_."

 

Patrick's eyes widened. Oh _shit_ -

"But like- he almost cuts his goddamn hand off. Like, you could see bone. And the guy falls back _screaming_ \- like, he _knows_ its over."

Patrick shifted in his seat, somehow unable to move his gaze from Brendon. Okay, things were looking up here, maybe- "Pete, like, _somehow_ , gets up, walks over to the guy- he's like, still screaming on the ground. And dude-"

Brendon leaned in as though it were a royal secret he could get executed for. "He leans down, puts his axe on the guy's throat- and _slices_ Hróarr's _neck_ open. I can still hear the sound, like- oh shit, it was _amazing_ \- Blood everywhere, like, the guy's wife is screaming, his kids are screaming- red everywhere like a _goddamn_ _waterfall_. It's like the fucking _Red Sea_ , dude-"

 

"…So, Pete won?"

 

Patrick snorted a laugh and nodded, "Yeah dude! How else d'you think he's the Jarl?"

 

Good point, and one Patrick had stupidly forgotten during that story.

 

He nodded slowly, but soon enough, Brendon's voice was shaking him from his thoughts once more. "Oh- I forgot to ask, how did _you_ get here? What happened to you?" Patrick's eyes flicked upwards, "I uh…I'm from Kent, I lived in-"

 

"Oh really? Kent? Oh hey, I told the guys about Kent. Told 'em about Essex too, like- they had no idea, oh gods- They actually thought there was _just_ Lindisfarne, like- holy shit- When I told 'em that there were _seven whole kingdoms_ , oh shit dude- they went _crazy_ -"

 

Brendon. Told them. About Kent.

 

Patrick's eye twitched as he started blankly, watching Brendon laugh through his stuttered words. Brendon had sent them to Kent, inadvertently- whatever, but-

 

"But uh- anyway, were you a monk, or something?"

 

Patrick shook his head, brow furrowed oddly as he tried his best to spit out an answer through shock. "I uh- I was- I, _am_ , a prince, my father's the king."

Brendon stared for a minute. Brendon laughed awkwardly. Brendon tried laughing harder, but- as Patrick's face remained stoic, the sound stopped.

 

Leaning forwards, Brendon's eyes were wide and twitching with shock, mouth hanging open like Patrick's had during their last story. "You…You're a prince? Like, you're actually a-"

Brendon's brow furrowed, and he shook his head with nothing but bewilderment on his face. "But- how are you _here_? Like, you- you would've had an army and shit, I don't…"  
  
Patrick sighed quietly, eyelids fluttering as he went back somewhere he really didn't want to go. "My father, wanted to sue for peace, and he offered gold, land, and my sister, but uh…Pete asked for me."

 

Brendon was frozen for only a second, before he was chuckling with a deep nod. "Yeah, that sounds like him. Hey- you should be flattered though."

Patrick couldn't help the violent scoff that escaped him…but he chose to add the painfully sarcastic eye roll. "Oh yeah, I'm _so_ grateful-"

"No, c'mon- I mean it dude." Brendon nudged him in the ribs softly, smile still prevalent on his face. "Pete's never had a wife, or, anything. And that's kinda weird, because like, even if you like dudes more, you'll have a wife like, _once_ , _at least_."

 

He'd never…? So, what was Patrick here- or, better yet, what the fuck was Brendon implying? Patrick wasn't a woman- and he _sure as hell_ wasn't Pete's wife-

 

"I don't know what you're-"

 

" _Sure_." Brendon winked dramatically, voice low and bemused. "I'm _sure_ you don't." Patrick made an indignant noise, stuck somewhere between an annoyed whine and an angry scoff. "I seriously don't know what you-"

 

" _Sure_."

 

Patrick squinted for a moment, seriously, what the fuck was Brendon trying to say? Patrick wasn't a woman, and like, oh. Oh. _OH_.

Well, god- if _that's_ what he was implying, there was literally no way, because two _men_ couldn't do…that. Biologically- and morally, _impossible_ , there was absolutely no way-

 

But, before he knew it, Brendon's eyes were back on the doe-eyed Christian. He let out a wistful sigh, chin falling into his hand and voice small and sad. "He's so pretty."

Patrick glanced back at the monk, before shaking his head with a sigh and clapping a hand on Brendon's shoulder. "Okay, look, if you really wanna talk to this guy-"

 

"Oh I wanna do more than _talk_ , Patrick-"

 

"Okay, gross, and, I'm not sure how you'd actually even accomplish that, but-" Patrick shook his head with a sigh, trying a glance over at Dallon that screamed for help. The taller man only shrugged, and went back to staring at the sky idly.

Patrick looked back over at a hopeful Brendon, eyes wide and bottom lip dropped. He smiled softly, trying his best to be sympathetic through the absurdity of a man fawning over another man. "Just, don't be weird-"

 

"I'm not-"

 

"I mean, just be friendly. And don't show him your axe, or, your sword, or- I'd probably wear long sleeves too, just in case-"

 

"My tattoos? Aw- but they're awesome, and they hurt like shit-"

 

"Just-"

 

"And my axe? Dude, it's the coolest thing about me, c'mon-"

 

"Just be normal." Patrick's wide eyes pressed him, and his hand squeezed a shoulder tightly. "He's probably…really scared, and- he, he probably needs time." Patrick's eyes shifted over to the Christian, eyes glazing over a little as he stared.

"Y'know, it might be new to him, and even though he might… _feel_ , something, it's- it's different, y'know? And- he just needs time, and, kindness, and maybe, one day…he might, he might be able to…"

 

Brendon was staring. One eyebrow quirked and eyes wide as full moons. "…You haven't fucked Pete have you?"

 

What-

 

Wha-

 

What the actual "-fuck are you talking about-"  
  
"Mine guder." Dallon was staring at him now, eyes wide and entire face painted in shock. "You- holy shit, you _haven't_ -"

 

"NO- Jesus, of course not- what the fuck are you talking about-"

 

"Oh my gods, that's _crazy_." Brendon shook his head, eyes still painfully wide and mouth catching flies. "You really haven't? Like, never ever?"

 

"No- I- I would never- that's illeg- ugh- what the fuck-"

 

"…You haven't even touched his dick?"

 

"BRENDON-"

 

"…Not even like, once?"

 

"DALLON- ALRIGHT. NICE TALKING TO YOU." Patrick jumped to his feet, "I am just…" He grimaced, shaking his head with a long suffering sigh. "Totally done here- have fun with your, stuff, or-" A shudder cut his words away, and being at a lack, Patrick quickly stalked away, ignoring the shocked stares on his back.

 

 

"YOU'RE BLUEBALLING THAT GUY, holy shit- BETTER FIX THAT SOON PATRICK-"

 

"FUCK OFF."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fuckin' Pete's wife- stupid Brendon, motherfucking Dallon- ew, god, that was just immoral on so many levels- ugh, just-

 

"Hey."

 

Patrick's eyes flicked over to the level voice, only to find someone he'd never really seen before. He looked like the generic type of person he'd seen around here; Fair, tall, marked, and armed to the teeth.

Patrick tried a small smile, "Hi." Before, making good on his plan to just keep walking…But, the second he lowered his gaze and tried to shift through the gap between two houses again- a hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks.

He quirked an eyebrow at the hand, then at its owner. The guy was staring, a dull edge in blue eyes as they fixed perfectly on his face. "You're that Christian, aren't you? The one the Jarl brought back from England."

 

Patrick gulped quietly, but nodded.

Since the monks had arrived, and since their sell swords and workers had busily set to building churches, Patrick had really tried to stay out of town.

The glares, the whispers, the hisses, the spitting- Patrick could see and hear it all, he wasn't stupid. Everyone thought he'd convinced Pete to do it, everyone thought he'd ' _corrupted_ ' their Jarl.

So, when he found himself alone, like he was now, and pretty much cornered by someone who was staring murder at him, like this guy was now…Patrick became embarrassingly sheepish.

For all his harsh words, his constant sarcasm, and his talk- he'd never been a good fighter, he just, sucked; It was natural, he wasn't cut out for it, it just wasn't him. But, unfortunately, it did render him a little helpless in situations like these.

 

The man tilted his head and raised his chin, eyes squinting at Patrick as his fingers dug into his shoulder painfully. Patrick bit his tongue to hide a hiss of pain, and kept his eyes steady at all costs; Showing weakness right now would do him no favors. He just had to get someone's attention, but- oh fuck, who was he kidding, the whole fucking town hated him at this point-

 

"Egill."

 

Oh thank fuck.

 

Patrick's eyes flicked over to- _Pete_. Shit, Patrick had never been happier to see him.

He stared at the man from the light of the road, dark eyes dull but silently warning. Patrick's gaze snapped back to the man's Adam's apple bobbing nervously, before he nodded reverently and took a step back, releasing Patrick's shoulder. "My Jarl."

Pete's hard stare stuck still, even when he-

 

"Patrick."

 

Patrick scurried to his side with no hesitation, keeping his eyes off of- Egill, he supposed, and instead, stuck them to Pete's side.

There were no more words, but Patrick felt something unspoken cross the air as Pete walked away, subtly tugging Patrick with him in total silence.

 

Patrick only managed to find his voice what must've been minutes later, eyes flicking upwards and voice lilting brokenly. "Pete- ohthankgod- uh- how was your meeting, thing-"

Pete turned sharply, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed as he grabbed a fistful of Patrick's shirt, pulling him closer. Patrick's heart was beating in his ears, echoing and ricochetting in all different directions before-

 

Pete pulled at his shoulder, tugging the shirt's collar over it. Patrick hissed at the fabric grazing- what felt like the start of bruises, and as he looked to his side, it only confirmed his suspicions. Red marks, shaped like fingerprints, were emblazoned over a pale shoulder.

 

He glanced back up at Pete, only finding a dark look and a tut, before his shirt was firmly back in place. Brown eyes snapped to his own like rubber, uncharacteristically serious, and harsh. "Do you know how to fight?"

 

Patrick gulped, shaking his head quickly with a sheepish flicker in his eyes. He couldn't even find words anymore, it was like his voice had been lagging three days behind him at this rate-

Pete gave a long suffering sigh and paced away, shaking his head and muttering to himself. Far too obediently, Patrick trudged after him, one hand idly rubbing at his shoulder.

 

"Helvete- can't even- fuck, _jaevla_ -"

 

Patrick gulped; Pete didn't sound happy, but-

 

He shook his head, brow dropping sternly. It would be okay, he'd just stay home. He, technically, didn't really have to leave, right? He could just stay back and, do stuff around the farm, he didn't have to really leave home, right?

 

Patrick nodded to himself, gaining confidence at his own reassurances.

 

Yeah. It was gonna be okay.

 

 

Patrick was gonna be okay.

 

 


	7. I'll Make A Man Out Of You

 

The week had been long.

 

And tiring.

 

And- actually, just kinda hellish, really.

 

Like, if Patrick had to describe his special kind of Hell...this week would come close.

 

After Pete had come to the conclusion that no, Patrick wasn't a fighter, he'd decided to _make_ him one, whether it came naturally or not. That, also meant an entire week of…training. It made Patrick shudder to even think about.

 

 

 

 

**Monday** had been…unexpected. Out of the blue and sharp.

 

"RISE AND SHINE."

Patrick jolted under the heap of covers a second before they were pulled away, leaving him curled up and shivering. "Wha- goaway-"

 

"Come on- _Dagen er ung_ -"

 

"Fuckoff- Jesus-" Patrick burrowed his head under a pillow, but he barely had time to open his eyes before a hand was gripping around his arm- and promptly dragging him out of bed.

"Agh- Fuck- What-what'sgoing _on_ -" Patrick's eyes were still stuck closed as his legs all but failed and sent him to the floor with a hard thunk and a curse.

There was a sigh he blindly turned his head too, but before he knew it, the hand was tugging him up to stand firmly. "We have things to do, Patrick."

Patrick scrubbed at his eyes with a hand, and as they blinked open, they quickly landed on none other than-

 

Patrick rolled his eyes. "Oh god- Pete just let me sleep-"

Just as he tried a move back to bed, Pete was tutting and pulling him out of the room by the collar- completely ignoring every single one of Patrick's annoyed whines.

 

"Alright." Pete stopped abruptly by the door, smiling at Patrick with a kind of sweetness it was way too early for. "You get five minutes to sulk, alright?"

 

"M'not sulking, m' _tired_ -"

 

"-And then you meet me outside, alright?"

 

With that, Pete dropped his hand and paced outside with too much cheeriness for morning time, leaving Patrick sleepy, disheveled, and squinting after him.

 

 

 

 

 

"Stupid fucking day, stupid Pete, fucking sweaters-" Patrick finally trudged outside after a slightly longer five minutes, and the moment he shifted past the doors, he groaned. Heavily.

 

Pete was leaning against a barrel, scraping a rag over a sword's blade idly. He glanced up at Patrick, eyes too bright for how fucking early it was. Patrick stifled a sigh, but let himself have an eye roll as he trudged forwards, making sure to keep his eyes dull and annoyed.

 

"What do you want."

 

Pete only chuckled bemusedly, standing up straight and quickly fetching another sword, curling his free hand around the hilt.  
Patrick, admittedly, was still half-asleep, so if Pete had been planning to kill him right now, he probably wouldn't have even realized until-

 

"Here."

 

The hilt was in his hand before he knew it, shoved there unnaturally. His fingers curled around the foreign weight; Patrick had never been comfortable with swords, honestly. He just wasn't…graceful, enough.

 

"We'll start with swords, alright?"

 

Patrick's brow furrowed in a second, his brain finally jolting awake from its stupor. "Wait a sec- what-"

"If you're going to live here," Pete sighed and scooped up another sword, twisting it into his hand with second-nature ease. "You need to know how to fight, Patrick."

 

Patrick whined. High, loud, and totally voluntary.

 

This wasn't fair, he'd been dragged out of bed, and now he was being asked to swing a sword, it wasn't humane, or fair, or- Pete was grinning. Ugh. Patrick rolled his eyes. "Is it a requirement? Are you gonna kick me off the island or something?"

Pete chuckled, shaking his head through squinted eyes, but Patrick wasn't giving up because of a cute laugh- he was tired, and he wanted to _sleep_. "Aren't I sup'osed to be your wife or somethin- like, I don't fucking know, I'm tired, just let me feed goats, I don't wanna-"

Something stiff flashed through Pete, but he was back to a bemused smile as soon as Patrick could blink. "Even wives fight, Patrick."

 

"…Really?"

 

"Uh huh."

 

"That's bullshit." Patrick sighed in exasperation, "I mean, good for them, but that's still such-" Pete only rolled his eyes, grin still stuck in place, and leaned forwards to pull Patrick by the arm. "You're learning. Like it or not."

 

 

 

 

 

"Watch me."

 

Patrick inhaled shakily, blinking hard and doing his best to lock his gaze on Pete.

The older of the two stood in front of him, body lax and sword relaxed in his hand. His eyes were dark, and they held something instinctual; It was like watching a dog, moments before they lunged with bared teeth. That moment of peace before the storm.

 

Apparently, faking him out and hitting him with a blunt sword was 'training', not domestic abuse, but however Pete tried to-

 

Pete lunged forwards in a split second, snapping forwards and striking like a snake. "FUCKING STOP-" With the yell bursting out of his throat hoarsely, Patrick managed to raise his shield quickly enough to avoid a blade to the face, but despite knowing Pete had fallen back again- he kept the cover up.

Shaking his head, Patrick did his best to chase away the exhaustion that swam and circled in his head like an angry shark. He was achy all over, and he was pretty sure he'd have a great bruise collection by tomorrow, fucking asshole kept-

 

"Focus."

 

Patrick grunted, nose wrinkling in defiance as he kept the shield up, and tightened his fingers around the sword hilt just that little bit tighter.

He heard a chuckle, a soft and easy sound he'd grown a little too fond of.

 

"Patrick, you have to watch me- you need to know when people are gonna attack, that's kinda the whole point here."

 

Patrick only furrowed his brow, and kept the shield in place. There was no fucking way he was just gonna let himself get hit in the face with a blunt sword- _screw that_.

The shield pulled, and Patrick glanced up to see golden fingers gripping the wood. Fuck. Patrick tried to jerk away, shield and all, but Pete only pulled it back and let go- "JESUS-" leaving Patrick with a faceful of wood, and what would no doubt be a huge fucking bruise on his forehead.

 

Patrick hissed as he fell back, finally tossing the shield to the dirt and holding onto his sword for dear life. Pete looked relaxed, as always. His shoulders were down, brown eyes lidded, and he didn't even seem to be gripping the hilt that tightly.

It made Patrick feel pathetic in every possible way. Sure, he was a little younger than Pete was, but- that amount of grace was something he'd never be able to pull of for as long as he-

 

Pete lurched forwards again.

 

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST PETE- FUCK OFF."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Okay so, Monday hadn't been great, but that wasn't to say **Tuesday** had been any better.

 

"Please, please- just let me clean the house, I don't wanna-"

 

"Axes!"

Pete shoved an axe into his hand with a beam on his face, "Second most important weapon around here- accessible and _very powerful_ , alright? Swing one of these right, you can kill a guy with one hit."

 

Patrick's lower lip shook as it jutted out, his voice high and petulant. "Maybe I don't wanna kill a guy with one hit-"

 

"Well you're gonna." Pete fished up another axe, looking perfect and, almost natural, in his hand.

He backed away slowly, coaxing Patrick into trudging forwards to fill the distance a little. Patrick's heart was pounding against his ribs, and the competitiveness flaring in his stomach was making him sick, but he had to try.

He couldn't just be the scared little kid forever. Right? No- he wanted to be somebody, he needed to grow up. He didn't want people to just shove him into corners, he didn't want people to pity him, or, look down on him- he wanted to be better. And, if this was the only way he was gonna get some respect around here…might as well.

 

 

 

 

Sword training hadn't been excellent, but Pete had made him practise the entire day, and the moves were still ghosting in every one of his muscles.

He kept himself light on his feet, making sure to give himself enough space to jerk away whenever- Pete swung forwards, axe slicing sharply and deftly- and directly into Patrick's side. "Shit-" Patrick stumbled back with a grunt, hand grabbing at the skin on his ribs. Sure, the axes were blunt, supposed to be used as toys for kids trying to learn, but that didn't mean they still didn't fucking _hurt_.

 

Patrick shook his head with an exhale, bracing backwards and gritting his teeth through the pulse on his ribs. Pete's eyebrows raised a little, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips at Patrick's lack of whinging- a real change from the day before. Little did Pete know, little did they all know.

 

Patrick was complaining on the inside.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Wednesday** had been…interesting. Not _bad_ , just…interesting.

 

"I have bad eyesight, I don't know if-"

 

"It's important, Patrick."

Pete finished carving an 'x' into the trunk of the large pine tree that sat a few meters away, before pacing back over. "When I leave, you're gonna need to hunt, like- you can't just spend everything I have on food, you gotta-"

 

"Pete- I think you're underestimating how blind I am."

 

Pete only shook his head, pocketing his knife and crossing his arms, raising his brow at the bow in Patrick's hands.

Patrick sighed heavily, making sure Pete caught the roll of his eyes as he pulled back the bowstring with a sharp intake of breath. Oh shit, this was heavy. Fuck, Patrick wasn't strong enough for this, oh shit-

 

"You need to nock an arrow, Patrick."

" _Fuck_. _You_." Patrick let the string down with a relieved, but pained exhale, before taking his time to glare at Pete as he fetched an arrow.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance as the arrow slipped and slid out of place, insisting on shifting out of his fingers and falling to the ground more times than he cared to admit.

It felt like the hundredth time Patrick was picking up the fucking arrow from the fucking ground, when a hand tucked into the back of his own.

 

Pete.

 

Fuck.

 

Patrick resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. Hard.

 

"Are you- are you trying to fuckin' _Maid Marion_ me right now? What the hell-"

 

"Just- let me help you." Patrick wrinkled his nose, but Pete only chuckled in a whisper. " _Before we're stuck here for twelve years_."

 

"Excuse you-"

 

"It's not that tricky, Patrick." Turns out, all it took was a hand nudging him the right way, and before he knew it, he was red-faced, straining, and clenching his jaw as he tried to hold back the heavy string. " _Now_. _What_?"

The warmth pressed against his back again, and once again, Pete's hands took to curling around his own. One around the bow itself, one around the string, and when Pete took the brunt of the weight, Patrick sighed heavily, letting his shoulders fall loose. "No- keep your back strong, I'll let go if you don't-"

Patrick straightened his spine with a sharp inhale; Holding a bowstring back was scary enough, but holding a nocked arrow back was infinitely worse.

 

"And- stop holding your breath, just chill out."

 

" _Can't_. _Really_. _Do_. _That_ -"

 

"Yes you can, just breathe- I'll hold the string, alright?"

 

Patrick hesitated for a split second, before his lungs emptied the achy breath he'd been holding for what felt like centuries.

His eyelids fluttered gratefully, and he found himself pressing back into the chest behind his shoulder blades- nope, not gonna do that anymore-

 

"C'mon, hold the string."

 

Patrick whined.

 

"Patrick- I already know how to do this, you're the one that needs to learn-"

 

Patrick scoffed loudly, tossing his head back to purposefully hit Pete's shoulder, but taking the string as told. He tried to hold his breath, but Pete knocked his head into the side of Patrick's gently, before settling beside his ear. "Just trust your eye-"

 

"I'm blind. I am actually blind, I don't-"

 

"You're not- just trust yourself." Trust himself. Yeah right, Patrick was a notorious fuck up; Ever since he was a kid, he'd been fucking up at everything, and this would be no different- "Your eye knows where it needs to go."

 

'Trust yourself' echoed in his ears again, and Patrick's eyes fell shut like weights. Inhale. Exhale. Pete was…really fucking warm right now, and shit, it was such a cold day, he really wanted to just turn around and- Nope, no, not gonna do that. Arrows. Bows- and arrows, yep, focus on that. Okay, okay- he could do this.

 

Patrick opened his eyes again, only to spot Pete watching him from the corner of his eye. He cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes, doing his best to squint at the target Pete had carved on the tree.

 

"Just a little above the mark- yeah, there you go." Pete's hand was warm as fuck around his own, shit, he made a note of that; His hands had been unnaturally cold this entire month, he really needed to-

 

"Let it go, whenever you're ready."

 

Patrick sighed shakily, and bit down on his lip harshly. His mind would usually be spinning at a million miles per hour, but…but it wasn't, now.

Patrick had done this before when he was younger, only, it'd been a longbow instead of a short one- thus a lot heavier, and it had been in front of his brother and the Master-At-Arms…oh, and not to mention, in front of every other kid at the castle. And his parents.

He'd fired the bow, missed by a long shot, and had promptly thrown up everywhere from nerves. Not ideal. And definitely not something he wanted to repeat right now.

 

Patrick released the string, and everything blurred for just a second, before Pete clapping him on the shoulder brought him back down.

The pagan laughed with a nod, and pulled Patrick towards the trunk to see the- oh.

 

The arrow was firmly wedged where the two lines met in a cross.

 

He hit the mark. He actually hit the mark. Bullseye, totally perfect. Patrick was pretty sure he was dreaming right now…but then again, his dreams would usually contain something enjoyable; not standing around in the woods, firing a bow at sunrise.

 

"See?" Pete smiled at him softly, eyes sparkling with pride as he tugged the arrow out of the trunk. He made a happy noise and held it out to Patrick.

 

"Trust yourself."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Thursday** sucked.

 

"LET ME LIVE MY HOUSEWIFE LIFE, I DON'T CARE ANYMORE."

 

"Patrick, just calm down- they sense fear-"

 

"THIS ISN'T NECESSARY-"

 

"Do you want to _walk_ across fjords?"

 

Patrick said nothing.

 

"That's what I thought, now-" Pete shifted on the back of a calm, proud grey horse, to look back at Patrick; Nervously riding a tan mare that kept freaking out at every terrified whine Patrick gave.

Pete clicked his tongue, tugging at the rope bridle of his own mount to slow him down. "Holde tilbake- kom igjen." He glanced back at Patrick, "Just- Patrick- listen to me."

"What? Just- what-" Patrick's words were half-sobbed and pitiful, and Pete could only smile at him sympathetically, "Relax."

Patrick nodded quickly, stifling his whine and clenching his jaw, gripping the rope until his nails bit into his palms and until his knuckles were white as milk.

 

"…Why are you so scared of-"

 

"Fuck. Off."

 

Pete bit back a laugh and nodded, sighing softly and glancing around at the canopy of trees, before shooting Patrick a stare from the corner of his eye. "…They're really fast runners, you know-"

 

"If you even dare- I will tear your fucking lungs out while you're asleep."

 

"…Spoken like a true _shield maiden_ -"

 

"Fuck you."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So yeah. Thursday had been scary, at first, but- eventually, Patrick had stopped freaking out, and he'd actually done good. They'd finally left the horses at sunset, and Patrick's legs would definitely be aching for like, a whole fucking week.

 

But, **Friday** had been _a lot_ better. Kinda. In some ways. Not in others.

 

"Punch me."

 

"What?" Patrick grimaced at the request, staring at Pete oddly as he did nothing but stand there, motionless and asking to be punched.

 

"Hit me- as hard as you can."

 

"…This isn't a weird _kinky_ thing, right?"

 

" _Patrick_."

 

"Alright, alright- dumb question, but-"

 

Pete's fist crashed into his shoulder, shoving him back into a heap in the dirt. A startled noise stuck in Patrick's throat, but as he stared up at Pete and as his mind sped up once again- he growled.

 

Patrick leapt to his feet and socked Pete in the stomach, but- "OW SHIT-" Patrick hissed as he held his injured hand to his chest, stamping in frustration as he completely ignored Pete's silent laughter.

He whined, squinting at his red knuckles through teary eyes, before shooting a glare at Pete. "That's not how punches are supposed to work, you fucker- stop FUCKING LAUGHING-"

Pete only laughed harder, doubling over and grabbing at his sides in vain, eyes reduced to slits as he shook with it.

 

Pete panted heavily, taking purposeful breaths before he nodded, and found the will to speak again. "I didn't- I meant in the face, you idiot, oh my gods-"

 

Patrick glared. In the face? Oh, Pete wanted to get punched in the face? Patrick was happy to oblige.

 

He drew his fist back with purpose, and before Pete had a moment to dodge it-

  
"HELVETE-"

 

"FUCK IT STILL HURT- IT STILL FUCKING HURT. WHY IS YOUR FACE SO HARD-"

 

"IT'S- THERE'S BONES, YOU IDIOT-" Pete was laughing again, ugly and braying as he cupped his reddening face with a hand, giggling like complete fucking dumbass-

Patrick backed away with a yelp as Pete leapt to his feet, a promise in his eyes and a lesson in his smile. Shit, this was training, it must be- Patrick could not get beaten up, he already looked like a fucking Dalmatian-

 

Wait.

 

A shield.

 

Round, painted, and capped with metal and leather. On the bench, just across the house's hall. It wasn't far, and if Patrick could-

Pete shot another fist his way, but Patrick leant back just in time to let it catch the air- rather than his face.

Patrick leapt across the logs by the hearth and snatched the shield into his hands. Okay, okay- this was good, this was really good- oh fuck, Pete was chuckling. "Good- that's good, defend yourself."

The younger of the two said nothing, he only gulped and nodded, before narrowing his eyes and pulling the shield in front of himself firmly.

 

Pete's smile twitched, eyes darkening into that primitive, focused stare he'd seen so many times this week. The brown eyes followed him like a magnet as he backed away, but before he knew it-

"SHIT-" Patrick grunted as Pete grabbed the sides of the shield, twisting it away and tossing it to the other side of the room, all in one fluid move.

Jumping back, Patrick glanced around wildly, clicking his tongue as Pete blocked the shield from view.

 

"Come on." Pete crooked his neck from side to side, eyes still locked on Patrick. "Think."

 

Think, think…Patrick needed that shield, he just needed to distract Pete long enough. He needed to fake him out, kick him in the shin, then dive past, grab the shield. Yeah- yeah, Patrick could do that.

 

He chewed on his lip, batting his eyes and doing his best to look clueless, and sheepish. Pete chucked quietly, eyes squinting into slits, and Patrick held back a wicked grin.

 

Gotcha.

 

Patrick dove to Pete's left, and as Pete twisted to grab him- he drove his sole against Pete's knee. The older man hissed, and Patrick leapt past him, racing towards the shield, before-

In a flurry, Pete pulled him back, tossing him against a wall and caging him with his arms. Patrick's head ached from where it had thumped back into the wood, but as his vision cleared again, Pete's eyes were the only thing he could see.

Dark, shining from the fire's light, and black, shiny pupils, leaving a slither of brown around their edges. He was close, that was all Patrick could process. He'd seen Pete with a bucket of water earlier, and he could tell what he'd used it for; The older of the two smelt like musk, and warmth, and smoke- it was strong, flooding his head, and-

 

"Think."

 

Think. Yeah- Patrick…Patrick needed to think. He kept his eyes low, forcing his mind to search for a solution, when-

Patrick kicked Pete in the thigh, a little too close to his dick for comfort- if the hiss and the curse were any indication. Patrick lurched away, once again making a beeline for the shield, before-

 

"FUCK- WILL YOU _STOP_ -"

 

"Think, Patrick- c'mon, think-" Pete was giggling through his words, and the sounds only made the fact that he was pinning Patrick to the floor all the more embarrassing. For Patrick. Who was wriggling around. On the floor. Like a suffocating fish.

His arm was pinned behind his back, knees were bracketed next to his hips, his cheek was pressed into the wood. This was, arguably, the worst situation he'd ever been in. His legs were trapped too, straddled firmly, and he could barely see for squinting away from the flames- this wasn't fucking looking up for him, but-

 

No.

 

No. Patrick needed to win this. He needed to prove he was worth something, that he could fight. That he was a _man_.

 

With a grunt, he managed to free his arm and shift around under Pete, holding a golden, marked arm in a deathly grip as he narrowed his eyes up at the man.

Pete's eyes were dark, but his face was blank. His mouth parted, no doubt to sternly tell him to 'Think', again, but just before the words croaked out- Patrick widened his eyes.

 

 

Keeping his grip on Pete's arm tight, he inched his free hand upwards. He curled it around the back of Pete's neck, but- Pete tensed and he flinched. Okay. Stay calm.

Patrick smiled apologetically, and inched his hand to weave through Pete's hair instead, keeping a firm, but gentle grip there.

 

Patrick kept his breathing steady, keeping his eyes locked with Pete's; They were still dark, but softer now, and while his mouth was parted, no lessons were pouring out of it. Good.

Blue eyes flicked between brown eyes, and parted pink lips, taking their time to rake over the sights.

 

Patrick's Adam's apple bobbed. There was a plan. It was risky. It was…slightly weird. It might not work. Or, it might work _too_ well.

 

He looked up at black pupils and brown eyes again, a shiver raking over his skin at the sheer focus swimming in them like schools of fish.

 

Now or never, right?

 

 

He pulled Pete down, sliding his mouth with Pete's in one, perfect move.

 

 

Pete's shoulders tensed for a moment, before he sighed; Long, heavy, and heart-wrenching, and all into Patrick's mouth. Patrick's chest was rising and falling faster than it ever had before, brain overwhelmed with the sheer amount of Pete.

The smell of smoke and wood that clung to his hair, the musk and sweat etched onto his skin beside ash markings. The scratch of his short beard against his cheeks, scraping and prickling in a way that felt electric, just like a lightning bolt. The _feel_ of his _mouth_ , sliding against his own perfectly, slotting together like sword and scabbard.

The sounds of their damp lips pecking and slotting together was enough to make him whine, and he felt a shudder run through Pete, wracking over his shoulders. Patrick could feel the goosebumps on a golden arm under his fingertips, and everything flooded back to him in an instant, almost drowning him as it did so.

 

Think.

 

He held back a smirk, and carefully laced his legs around the sides of Pete's. Patrick shifted slightly, but made sure to distract the man above him with a quiet mewl that made golden skin break out into shivers once again.

 

Without a second of hesitation, Patrick flipped Pete onto his back, caging him and trapping him on the wooden floor.

 

Pete's face only blanked the second Patrick's hands gripped around Pete's wrists, holding him down and still. Patrick grinned, a spark of pride lighting him up and puffing his chest out.

He leant down, but stopped an inch above Pete's face. "I _thought_."

 

Despite himself, Pete's face split into a grin. "Good job, but uh…" He gave an aborted shrug under Patrick, but the beam- that was now a little prouder, remained. "This just kinda seems like a win-win situation to me."

 

Wait.

 

Oh fuck.

 

Oh- shit, he'd actually just- he'd kissed Pete. That wasn't- that was a sin, oh fuck- but, wait, was his God even real? Like-

 

No, Patrick could save theology arguments for another day, but right now- He'd just kissed the _pagan_.

 

Desperately hoping it'd hide his internal freak out, Patrick rolled his eyes. Deeply and painfully, and all as he ignored Pete's quiet laughter from below him. He sighed, doing his best to hide the hyperventilation just begging to take place, and he stood.

Patrick ignored Pete's bemused whine and only power-walked away to the bedroom- hoping it wouldn't send the wrong message.

 

 

 

 

He practically dove into bed after that, curling up under a mound of blankets and turning his back to where he knew Pete would be lying in a little while.

His hands were shaking- and, so was the rest of him. Oh shit, oh fuck- oh god, screw his life, he'd just kissed Pete, that was immoral, and- and- done by husbands and wives, not- not- two men, who weren't even- no shit, shit-

 

A whine made him peek out of his burrow, and he only found Dog, standing at the foot of the bed and watching him curiously. Patrick sighed heavily and shakily, but still found a way to shoot a stern word at the animal. "I can't deal with our beef right now, alright- like, just go to sleep dude-"

 

Dog bounded towards him in a split second, insisting on nuzzling into his blankets and rolling around beside him. "Will you fucking- wait, you're pretty warm, actually- good substitute, should've thought of this earlier-"

Dog whined and curled up beside him, seemingly not too interested in chewing his face off. Thankfully.

 

 

"Patrick?"

 

 

The voice was Pete's, and it was coming from behind the door. Patrick held back a yelp and a jolt, and only buried his face in Dog's fur. "Pretend we're asleep." Dog yawned, and Patrick heard his tail thumping happily.

 

 

Patrick was pretty good at ignoring people, when he needed to.

 

  
And he _really_ needed to, right now.

 

 

 

 


	8. Everything's Bigger In Jotunheimen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHIP OUT THE GOOGLE TRANSLATE MY DUDES, SWEDISH THIS TIME. (There's like, five lines, I'm so sorry,,,)

 

Patrick wasn't sure how he'd ended up on the ship.

 

As he sat there, huddled in a sweater and blowing warm breaths into his hands past chattering teeth, he gazed around at the sights.

It was a cold day, as expected by now, and that little detail made sitting in a boat at open sea all the more painful.

Sure, he'd tried to get all his complaining out of his system that morning, when Pete had pulled him out of bed and had dragged him away to the ports, but that didn't mean he wasn't still annoyed.

Patrick squinted out at the sea; It was clear today, no tinge of blue or teal behind it. The skies were grey, and an easy mist sat over the water gracefully, blocking everything else from view.

Indeed, the only things that breached the mists were small dots of orange light, traveling alongside, behind, and in front of them at a calm pace. Other boats, he supposed; All marked out with torches, in order to not lose track of the pack.

It was a good tactic, and one Patrick was a little surprised by; Maybe these guys were smarter than they let on.

 

Patrick sighed quietly as he shifted in his seat, ignoring the pain shooting through his tailbone. He'd been sat in the corner of this boat for what felt like years, he'd been too awkward to take an actual bench- seeing as those people were rowing and he had zero intention to do so.

He pressed his head back against the smooth wood, exhaling softly and watching the breath steam in front of his face.

Patrick still didn't know where they were going, truthfully, but it wasn't like he could ask Pete. Or, anyone, right now.

No, once they'd arrived at the port, Pete had ushered Patrick onto a boat, and had promptly left for another. It was…weird. It was the first real time he'd been away from Pete, and while half of him was a little sad about it- the other was overjoyed, actually.

Since the…incident, a Friday ago, things had been tense. Patrick had said nothing, and Pete had said nothing, thank god- but, that didn't mean things were back to normal.

It was all Patrick's fault, that was a give, but Pete had been courteous enough; He hadn't brought it up, he hadn't teased, he hadn't been a dick, basically, and Patrick was grateful.  
Training had kept his mind off it anyway, and slowly but surely, Patrick was starting to not suck, which was a nice surprise-

 

"You're, Patrick, right?"

 

Patrick's head shot upwards towards the voice, only to find- huh, Andy, if he remembered right. He nodded quickly, straightening up where he sat as Andy exhaled quietly. "Går bare for det- Do you know where we're going? Did Pete tell you?"

Patrick shook his head, but quickly cleared his throat as he remembered to _use his words_. "Uh- no, he didn't say anything."

Andy's brow furrowed, a look of confusion crossing his features before he nodded slowly. "Well uh…I'm not sure why he didn't, but, would you- would you like to know?" Patrick nodded quickly and gratefully; The question had been eating away at him all fucking day.  
Andy nodded and sat on the closest bench, leaning forwards and bracketing his forearms over his legs. "We're going to Jotunheimen, for a Blót."

 

Patrick squinted.

 

"I know what like, _three_ of those words mean."

 

Andy chuckled quietly, but sighed to himself, leaving Patrick scrambling behind with his questions. "What's Jotunheimen?"

The pagan's eyes flicked towards him, cracking his inked knuckles idly. "The home of the Giants." Patrick froze, breath stopping but eyes still blinking rapidly. "Giants?"

Andy quirked a brow for a moment, before laughing quietly with a shake of his head, "Uh…don't like, tell the Seer, but, giants probably aren't real." He froze for a moment, before continuing with a shrug. "Well, not here, anyway. They're real in Jotunheim, but- that's different to where we're going, but-" He shook his head again, "They're just children's stories, like trolls, or-"

 

"Trolls?" Patrick's eye twitched. Andy nodded, face painted with pure confusion.

 

Motherfucking Pete; He'd made him believe a kids' story, oh fuck, that bastard was gonna get a sock in the jaw, son of a bitch-

 

"And, a Blót, is uh…" Andy grimaced at the clueless look on Patrick's face for a moment, before only sighing. "Pete really didn't tell you about this?"

Patrick sighed and held back an eye roll; Andy was trying to help, after all. To fill in the gaps left by Pete, thanks a lot bitch-

"No, he didn't tell me anything." He tried a smile, doing his best to coax any words. "So…what's a Blót?"

  
Andy cleared his throat, throwing a stare over the sea for a moment, almost glaring at another, blurry boat in the distance. His light eyes moved back to Patrick. "So…I'm just gonna say it, but try not to freak out, alright?"

Patrick spluttered a nervous laugh, "What? Like, how bad could it be right? It's not like, it's a murder festival, or something, right? Like, that'd be weird, so it can't really be any worse than-" Patrick froze as Andy's eyes shifted around again.

 

"What's a Blót?"

 

"…I think, 'Murder festival' was a pretty good way to put it."

 

Alright.

 

Great times, awesome stuff-

 

"Don't freak out."

 

Patrick was gonna swim home now.

 

"It's not that bad. It's just a pilgrimage." Patrick stared, eyes wide and watering at being deprived of a blink for so long. "How could something you described as a 'Murder festival'-"

 

"Technically, _you_ described it as that."

 

Patrick stared.

 

Andy cleared his throat again, but quickly shook his head and tried a reassuring smile at Patrick. "Murder might have been the wrong word." The smile grew a little nervous. "Think sacrifice instead."

 

"…Sacrifice? Are you fucking kidding me?"

 

Andy powered through Patrick's whines and complaints, and honestly, Patrick was surprised at how much restraint he had here. "Nine of an animal every day. It's not that bad."

Patrick shook his head, a grimace heavy and visible on his features. "I don't- fuck, I knew you pagans were acting too normal-"

"Anyway," Andy sighed again, ignoring the insult with wide and serious blue eyes. "I thought you might need to know. To prepare yourself, I guess."

Patrick gulped, and despite himself, he nodded, speaking in a tiny voice. "Thank you." Andy smiled back, before standing and making a move back towards the clumps of other Northmen nearer the mast.

 

"You're welcome."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jotunheimen was…impressive.

 

If Patrick had thought Lofoten had been a revelation, this had completely blown it out of the water.

 

Patrick had never seen mountains that big- and he'd never hoped to, he never knew they could exist; Some were rounded and smooth like pebbles, some were pointy like daggers, but every single one of them was monstrous in size. This place had certainly earned its name.

It was familiar in some ways, however. The water was as blue as it'd been in Lofoten, there was white, fluffy snow on the grey rocks on the horizon, and the grass was unnaturally green. But, despite the similarities, Jotunheimen felt…bigger.

The lakes looked like flooded hand prints and footprints, some rocks freakishly resembled faces, and all of it felt too gigantic for humans.

He knew Andy had, thankfully, corrected him on the reality of giants, and trolls- thanks a lot Pete, but something about the place still made Patrick shudder.

 

 

"Up here- Det er bare her." Brendon, one of the willing scouts sent out ahead the rest of the groups from the boats, paced back from the top of a hill that cascaded into thick trees.

There were nods and quick words of thanks, as the roughly group of fifty followed. They breached the tree line, and nothing couldn't prepared Patrick for the sight.

 

It was a clearing, a huge one in a place where everything was oddly huge.

 

The grass was long, but pressed down by flurries of tents, campfires, and pens filled with animals. Those were going to the slaughter, he supposed; God, nine every day- for nine days. All to appease a couple of Gods that probably weren't real. It was brutal.

Long banners were nailed into the sides of tree trunks, colours from blue and golden, to red, white, and blue, to black and grey were all easily swaying in the light breeze. The thick pine needles did a bad job of hiding the sky, and past their gaps, the blue sky and the bright sunlight shone through.

Towards the back of it all, placed at the top of a hill and steps, was a large, wooden building- not unlike the great hall back in Lofoten.

 

Warm wooden slats, carved drawings, and raising up in triangles, only this building was adorned by a moose skull over the door, its proud antlers framing the tall doors perfectly.

The way up the steps was lit by small pillars, on which sat metal bowls that housed flickering flames.

Once again, Patrick could only see fire hazards everywhere he looked, but he put it to the back of his mind as he followed the group.

 

 

He hadn't seen Pete yet, oddly enough.

Even after the boats had docked, and they'd been cleared out, Pete had completely slipped past his watchful gaze.

It felt weird, Patrick still wasn't used to being without him. As much as he hated to admit it, Pete was his only measure of security in this part of the world; The only person he could really, fully trust. He knew others, some like Brendon, Dallon, Andy, and Joe had been nice enough to him, and hell, even someone like Tyler was a familiar face- but it wasn't the same.

It reminded Patrick of when he'd been younger; He'd been so attached to Kevin and Megan back then, but whenever they up and left him, he'd be plagued with a dark black hole in his stomach, that would haunt him until they came back.

Sure, back then, he would've usually burst into tears in public, and would've cried until someone paid attention to him, but he was an adult now, he couldn't very well do _that_.

 

"Temple first?" Dallon raised an eyebrow at Joe, who only shrugged with a nod.

Patrick glanced over his shoulder as a few others dispersed away, tossing linen bags into tents and claiming them as a precaution, he supposed.  
He looked back ahead, finding the few who remained and following quickly, easily stepping over roots and stones. He was getting pretty good at wandering around in forests now.

 

 

 

 

It didn't take long for them to climb the steps, and before he knew it, they were pushing through the carved doors.

The room was huge, and the ceiling was high and laced by beams. Sconces hung from chains on the ceiling, along with the same kind of long banners that had stuck to the trees outside.

What caught Patrick's attention however, were the statues.

Huge, tall, and wooden. They were carved in the way Patrick had come to expect, and twelve of them stood around the edges of the room, proud and imposing over them.

 

The group had stopped moving as soon as they'd started, hanging back at the door as they fell silent.

 

There was a group of seven in front of them, kneeling on the wooden floor. A man stood in front of them, pale and holding a metal bowl in a hand, and a brush in the other. There was something dark around his eyes, and over the shells of his ears, but before Patrick knew it, the seven were standing, and moving away towards the statues.

 

The others started forwards, moving to take the places that had been left blank. Patrick had had every intention of hanging back, he'd use the 'Christian' card if he had to-

 

A hand clapped on his shoulder firmly, pulling him forwards as-

 

Pete.

 

Patrick wasn't sure if he wanted to hug him or punch him in the face, but he barely had any time for words before Pete had pushed him down to kneel. He dropped to his knees beside Patrick, and into line with the others, all while the man holding the bowl- who he assumed was a priest of some kind, paced towards the left side of the line.

He stood in front of Tyler, soaked the brush in the bowl, and pulled it back to reveal-

 

"Is that blood?" Patrick hissed at Pete in pure panic, who only chuckled lowly, and kept brown eyes trained forwards.

Patrick tried to follow suit, but he couldn't help flinching every time his footsteps sounded, or every time he spoke in a booming, proclaiming voice.

 

"Hail to the Aesir and the Vanir." The man flicked the brush over Tyler, specks of something suspiciously red and iron-smelling splaying over his face. "Hail to the gods and goddesses."

The priest soaked the brush once more, moving to Dallon. "Hail to Odin, Thor, and Frey." Flicking it over once more, Patrick craned his neck to spot the red droplets all over Dallon's face, from forehead to neck.

"Hail to Vali, Sif, and Heimdallr." The priest moved to Brendon, sparing him a quirked brow as he drowned the brush once more and snapped it across the air, speckling Brendon's face all over, "Hail to Baldr, Bragi, and Eir."

"Hail to Lin, Ifon, and Mimir." Andy now, and the priest hardly batted an eyelid. Huh. Maybe he knew Brendon wasn't from here. Shit, Patrick didn't even want to know how he'd react to _him_.

"Hail to Freyja, Loki, and Frigg." Andy didn't flinch as the droplets hit his face, and Patrick had to quickly snap his jaw shut as the priest came to a stop in front of him.

 

The priest almost paused, raked his blue eyes over Patrick, but continued, voice solemn and low as it had been before.

 

"Hail to Njord, Ran, and Tyr." The priest rolled the brush hairs in the…what Patrick was 99% sure was blood, and raised it, letting the dark droplets droop from the end. He flicked it over Patrick, specks landing purposefully across his face.

"Hail to Odin's spear, Thor's hammer." Patrick bit back a yelp as his eyes pinched closed, shoulders bunching up as he heard the priest's steps moved away.

He only managed to blink his eyes open to glance over at Pete, brown eyes focused as he stared forwards at the priest. "Hail to the mighty fecund earth." The priest spun the brush in the bowl once more, before poising it, and flicking the bristles over. Pete didn't even blink.

 

"All hail."

 

The others chimed the words back, to which Patrick caught up in a mere whispered whimper.

Like the others before them, they stood, and paced over towards the statues in silence while others took their place. The second they were out of the priest's sight, Patrick shoved Pete with a hiss. "What the fuck is this?! Why the fuck did you bring me here?!"

"Shh- just, calm down." Pete's hand was on his shoulder again, squeezing and calming as he stared with wide eyes, the blood drying on his face quickly.

He all but dragged him over to the first statue; A woman holding a spear, and flanked by two cats that sat at her feet. "I couldn't just leave you at home, alright?"

Patrick glared, jaw writhing under his skin. "Why the fuck not? I would've been fine-" Pete sighed and shook his head, pulling him towards another, taller statue as he smiled back at the priests nervously.

It was a man, missing and eye and wearing a wide-brimmed hat. There were two crows on his shoulders, whispering in his ears and all frozen in wooden time.

 

"No, you wouldn't have." Pete sighed, shaking his head. "Things are getting…trickier, at Lofoten- and, it's my fault, but until it's dealt with- you stay with me, alright?"

Patrick glared up at the statue, adamant on refusing Pete eye contact. He swallowed back the lump in his throat, and gave a curt nod that radiated pure annoyance. "Fine."

 

It wasn't fine.

 

Patrick knew that, and he was pretty sure Pete knew it too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Åh mina gudar- Jag kan inte tro det."

 

Patrick's head snapped around at the voice, chiming in a language he didn't understand.

He saw two men, leaning against tree branches that were draped with blue and gold banners. They grinned at Pete, who beamed back with a low laugh as he stepped towards them.

Patrick didn't want to follow anymore, but he didn't want to wander out into the wolves' den; He looked too much like a lamb to be doing stupid shit like that.

  
One of them was covered in the typical dark markings he'd seen over the last few months, but the other was bare from them. They both had dark hair- although, one's was shorter and one's was longer, but their eyes were significantly lighter than Pete's. Both greeted him like an old friend.

 

Pete laughed as he fell back from them, grin broad and bright, and eyes alight. "Hur mår ni båda, _f_ _ransmän_?"

The one with bare skin chuckled, but the marked one huffed bemusedly, matching Pete's lilted, sarcastic tone at the end of his words. "Inte så dåligt, _a_ _frikan_."

Pete only snorted a laugh again, "Och, du har mig där- uh," He glanced over his shoulder at Patrick, motioning him over with a nod. "Come here."

 

Well that was fucking insulting. Patrick stepped forwards. Pete had been treating him like a dog since he'd gotten here, it was honestly so fucking-

 

And voila, there Patrick was, loyally by his side once again.

 

Pete clapped him on the shoulder, turning back to the newcomers with a grin. "Det här är Patrick." The other two nodded, smiles small and somewhat polite, but just as their mouths tried to part in greeting, Pete cut in once again. "Han är _engelska_."

 

" _Åhh_ -"

" _Åh_ , okej-"

 

"This is," Pete pointed towards the bare one, "Gerard, and that is," His finger moved to the other, "Frank."

 

Well those names were-

 

Real.

 

Huh. That was weird, and unexpected, but welcome. Shit, finally some people with normal fucking names, thank god-

 

"Their mothers are French, but uh- They're Swedes."

 

Swedes? Well, what the fuck did that mean- Pete's eyes widened slightly as he caught the confusion on Patrick's face, but soon enough, he patted him on the shoulder and nodded towards a clump of tents, where Brendon and Dallon stood idly.

"Go uh…Go see them, I have some stuff to deal with, alright?" The words were exasperated, almost exhausted, but Patrick found himself obliging and stepping away.

 

Yep, that was him, always fucking obliging.

 

Gerard and Frank's voices rang in his ears as his footsteps crunched through grass and sticks. "Så vad hörde jag här?" ' _Swedes_ '- Patrick still didn't know what that meant. "Ja, du bygger kristna kyrkor?"

"Jag måste prata med dig om det, faktiskt-" Pete's voice was the last thing on his mind as he finally reached the tents, meeting Brendon and Dallon with a small smile that he hoped portrayed just how _done_ he was.

 

"What's a Swede?"

 

Brendon and Dallon glanced between each other, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. They both dissolved into quiet chuckles, all before Joe swept in the side and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "There's a lot you need to know, Patrick."

Patrick groaned, holding back the frustrated whine the threatened to escape him. He stared up at Joe pitifully.

 

"Do I have to?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"So…there's _more_ , of you? Like, different types?"

 

That probably sounded more horrified than he'd intended it to, but the point still stood.

The others glanced at each other around the campfire; Joe and Andy had began the endeavour of teaching Patrick about his current situation valiantly. Truly trying to inform him properly, and carefully.

 

And then Brendon and Dallon had joined in.

 

And then Tyler had showed up for the ride, snickering every time the latter duo chimed in with some stupid joke Patrick still didn't fully understand.

 

Joe nodded slowly, brow half furrowed and half raised as though he wasn't sure if he should take offence or not. "Yeah. Do you uh…want to, recount?"

Patrick gulped quietly, squinting at the flames as he tried to recall the facts. Okay, so, first there was- "Norway." Right? Yeah, the place where he'd been living for the past few months, okay, not too tricky.

But then there was…"Sweden?" The others nodded enthusiastically, smiling broadly as though they were trying to push him to the right answers- hell, even Tyler was grinning from where he slouched against a fallen tree trunk.

Patrick sighed, wracking his brain desperately. Okay, no- he'd remembered seven kingdoms and every county in them before, he could memorize a few countries. Yeah, he had this, the next one was- "Denmark."

 

More nods, more grins, more expectant, waiting silence.

 

"F-Finland? Iceland, and…Greenland?"

 

"The Faroe islands also count. Just over Denmark." Tyler chimed in with a wide-eyes and a helpful, to which Patrick only nodded at shakily.

Patrick glanced between them all, "So…That, aside- why uh…Why do you do," He motioned around at the clearing, " _this_?"

 

"To worship the Gods with sacrifice." Dallon reeled the words away like a pro, leaning back on the boulder where he'd settled next to Brendon. Patrick squinted, "Your gods demand sacrifices? That's a little…much."

Brendon chuckled, "Dude, last I remember, our 'god' asked everyone for money, remember?" He leant forwards, arms bracketing on his thighs. "Otherwise he sent 'em all to Hell, remember?"

 

Shit. Patrick had forgotten about that...But, he blamed not going to mass in such a long time.

 

Tyler guffawed from where he lay, the sarcasm was evident, and even though it was at his expense, Patrick could help but respect that dedication to the art. "Why does your god need gold? Is he greedy?"

Joe tilted his head, trying a reassuring smile at Patrick. "We have greedy gods too, like Loki." Patrick shook his head quickly, "God isn't- He isn't greedy."

Brendon sighed from where he sat, throwing his head to the side with a heavy sigh. "Dude, Patrick- how can you still believe in 'god'? Like, haven't you seen the Gods in the sky yet, or?"

 

Good point. And one that made Patrick's brain hurt to think about.

 

"It just…" Patrick chewed at his lip, shaking his head subtly. "It makes sense. Our- God, makes sense, and…yours don't."

Tyler chewed at the inside of his cheek for a second, before leaning up to squint at Patrick. "How do you Christians think the world was made?"

Well, that sounded like a trick. Typical. Patrick furrowed his brow, "What-"

"No no no- I'm curious." Tyler leapt up from his seat on the floor, taking one on the wooden trunk instead. "How do you think the world was made? Let's see who's god makes more sense."

 

Patrick shook his head quickly with a shrug, almost struggling through the old words that seemed so insignificant now, so unenthusiastic. "God, uh- Over seven days, God commanded there to be…light, water, soil- uh…I think, the sun and the stars, came after. Then he made the animals, and the- the people, and uh…that was…that was it."

 

The others glanced between each other with stifled smirks, bar Brendon, who only looked on in a faded, old kind of empathy.

Patrick gulped nervously, hoping he wouldn't sound too petulant as he sighed. "Alright, so, whatever- How do you guys think it was made?"

 

Tyler smiled softly, eyes almost glazing over as he focused them on the fire they circled. "Before there was soil, or sky, or any green thing, there was only the gaping abyss of Ginnungagap."

 

Dallon picked the words up swiftly, carrying on seamlessly and without a second of hesitation. "This chaos of perfect silence and darkness lay between the home of raging fire, Muspelheim, and the home of freezing ice, Niflheim."

 

Andy followed, eyes frozen on the fire and voice steady. "Frost from Niflheim, and flames from Muspelheim, crept toward each other until they met in Ginnungagap." He nodded softly, almost to himself more than to Patrick. "Amid the hissing and the conflict, the fire melted the ice, and the water formed itself into Ymir, the first of the godlike giants. And slowly, more giants came to be."

 

Joe carried on without missing a beat, voice slow and purposeful as blue eyes locked onto flame. "When Ymir died, the body fell into the Ginnungagap, and the world was created from the remains." His head fell to the side a little, eyes squinting at the bright light as Patrick listened in silence, jaw loose and eyes wide.

 

Tyler picked up once more, voice quiet and steady, almost muffled behind his hand as he rubbed it over his jaw. "The blood became the rivers, lakes, and oceans, and the flesh became the land."

Brendon nodded quietly, voice still low and soft. "The bones became the mountains, and the teeth were made into rocks."

Joe followed on once more, risking a glance up at Patrick, only to find him wide-eyed and almost entranced. "The hair became grass and trees, and the eyelashes were turned into Midgard."

 

Picking up from the words, Andy kept his voice lower and more focused than Patrick had ever heard it before. "The brain was thrown into the air, and it became the clouds, while the skull was the sky- becoming the lid for the new world."

"The sparks from Muspelheim shot into the sky, and they gleamed in the night, making the stars from their balls of fire." Dallon spoke solemnly, but before another of them could open their mouths to continue, a voice chimed in from _behind_ Patrick.

 

"On the plains of Idavoll, Ymir's three brothers built Asgard, which would be the home of the Gods."

 

Pete.

 

Patrick knew that voice too well by now.

 

He stepped over the fallen trunk on which Patrick sat, and shifted into the seat beside him, leaning forwards towards the fire, letting Tyler carry on the words nimbly.  
"And far away from Asgard, the brothers built the world of Jotunheim, the home of the Giants."

 

Patrick froze, a clearing cough stuck in his throat as he searched for the words to, argue, or to, fight back, but soon enough, words were pouring from none other but Brendon again.

 

"One day, Odin, Vili, and Ve found two logs on the beach, one was from an ash tree, and the other was was from an Elm."

Joe smiled and huffed quietly, but kept speaking with a nod. "Vili gave them shape, speech, feelings, and five senses. Ve gave them movement, mind, and intelligence."

 

"And Odin gave them life." Andy's voice was still quiet, still soft, and his eyes were still on the fire while Dallon took up the gauntlet- all while Patrick easily ignored Pete at his side, far too entranced by the tale. "They were the first two humans, the man was named Ask, and the woman, Embla."

 

"And the Aesir sent them to live in Midgard, the world made from Ymir's corpse." Pete. _Again_. Patrick glanced at him as they all fell silent, and for once, Patrick didn't feel like arguing. He couldn't think of anything compelling after that, how could he?

 

Tyler clicked his tongue, eyebrows raised as he fished for Patrick's gaze. "So Christian, what makes the most sense to you?"

 

Patrick held his tongue.

 

Despite every single thing he wanted to say, despite every desperate argument he wanted to make, despite every mass and every coin he'd given to a false god…Patrick couldn't argue with it anymore. But he couldn't bring himself to admit that, everything he'd ever known, wasn't true. Not again. It'd hurt too much the first time.

 

And for once, Pete decided to save him.

 

He nudged Patrick in the ribs with a smile, before glancing around at the others. "So, did you teach him what a Swede is yet?"

 

The others burst in laughter and chatters, the solemnity melting away in mere seconds. They were all smiles and grins and nods as they recounted the struggles of teaching Patrick about their countries.

Pete listened to them all with a beam and crinkled eye corners, but every now and then, he'd glance at Patrick, eyes flashed and flooded with understanding.

 

Patrick smiled, trying to keep his eyes from getting too emotional. And in a moment of distraction, as the others spluttered laughs that made their eyes close and that drowned out words with laughter, he leant over to Pete's ear.

 

"Thank you."

 

Pete only smiled.

 

 

And Patrick could practically feel the ' _You're welcome_ '.

 

 


	9. Heaven's Gate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait, but I hope it was worth it lol.

 

"Get up, Patrick."

 

A hand shook his shoulder gently, trying to coax him awake. Patrick only whined and tried to bat it away, rolling further into his cocoon of fur blankets and plain ignoring everything else.

There was a sigh, but it was distant through the layers. Patrick whined quietly, trying to enjoy the softness and the warmth for just a _little_ longer, before-

 

"UP." The blankets were tugged off in one, swift movement, and Patrick could only sob at the cold. He knew there was no point in arguing.

 

Pete was stubborn, and Patrick would always oblige anyway. As much as he hated to admit it, he'd always end up trudging after Pete, as loyally as a dog.

 

It was only when Patrick's eyes blinked open, and he found a canvas tent instead of a bedroom, that he remembered where exactly he was.

 

Shit. The Blót- bullshit, weird pagan sacrifices, ugh-

  
He dropped his face into a bed roll and groaned, only to have Pete sigh and tug at his arm from above him. "Patrick, _get up_. It's already midday."

He was right, Patrick knew he was right- and sensible, and responsible. But that didn't mean Patrick didn't whine for the entire duration of getting up, getting dressed, and stumbling outside, because Patrick was dedicated to the art of complaining.

 

There were a few hundred people attending this so called 'Blot'; All from the collection of horrific sounding countries Patrick had only learnt about a day before.

On that particular cold, misty day, they all seemed to be stood in the clearing, just under the steps that led up to the temple.

 

Everything from the grass, to the trees, to the tents, to the banners and to the people themselves, was frosted over with tiny flakes of ice that clung and chipped to them.

Patrick only tucked his arms against his chest and tucked his chin down, bouncing in place as both he and Pete came to stand with the softly murmuring crowd.

 

Joe and Andy were to their left, and Dallon, Brendon and Tyler stood at their right.

"Morning." Through nods and a few muttered greetings, smiles were exchange and the customary start to any day was underway.

Well this wasn't so bad. Like, Patrick had been expecting a lot worse, but hey, this didn't seem too awful.

That being said however, Patrick reminded himself that the group of hundreds were stood in a thin ring, all circling what Patrick could only assume was a table.

 

It was long, pictured with snakes, chains and crows that were whittled into the wood. It sported carved ridges and a hole in the center, while under it, sat huge, shallow buckets.

 

Around it, stood what Patrick could only assume were priests, marked with that similar dried darkness under their eyes and over their ears, they waited silently along with spectators. The only difference was, the priests carried knives; Long, sharp, shiny, and almost curved at the tips- along with hilts of something white, brittle and suspicious.

 

Okay, Patrick retracted his earlier statement. Fuck, this was weird already.

 

Patrick glanced at Pete desperately, eyes wide and pressing, but the pagan only raised a brow, and kept his silence.  
Patrick's eyes shifted from side to side; Okay, he was honestly three seconds from bolting away from this bullshit, this was the creepiest thing he'd ever seen, and he'd seen a _Catholic church_ during _witching hour_ \- not much could top that.

 

It didn't take long before the crowd started shifting, and before Patrick knew it, two more priests emerged from behind the crowds, leading a man behind them.

They gave no instructions, but the man seemed to know what to do.

 

He shifted onto the table and lay back, everyone falling in complete deathly silence as the mutters died, only leaving birdsong, leaves rustling, and the ambience of distant animals to fill the air.

 

Okay. Between the knife, the table, the guy, and the sheer amount of priests, Patrick was getting concerned.

 

But, no matter how much he glanced Pete, eyes wide and begging for an explanation, he got nothing in return. Pete would only shake his head quietly, and give him a stern look- not unlike those his father had supplied during really boring church services.

 

The sound of a blade unsheathing snapped his head back towards the table.

 

Patrick held back a gasp, choking on the air as one of the priests moved to poise his knife, just under the swell of the man's ribs.

No. No- there was no way. Andy had said they would sacrifice animals, not- not _people_. This was brutal, shit- that wasn't-

Oh god, Patrick didn't know what he'd been expecting; They were savages, through and through, he didn't know why he'd thought anything else- but, shit, they weren't that bad, but- there was a fucking guy on a table, fuck-

 

In the midst of his crisis, Patrick looked away, burying his head and keeping his eyes on the soil, but hardly a beat passed before Pete's hand was tight around his bicep.

He glanced upwards, finding brown eyes staring softly- too softly for the occasion, and when Pete finally spoke, it was low, and quiet. "You have to watch."

 

Fuck that. Patrick's lip curled as he moved to jerk his arm away, intent on shaking his head before Pete's words froze him again. "For _his_ sake."

 

Slowly, Pete's hand slipped from his arm, and brown eyes flicked back towards the table for a mere second. "He won't reach Valhalla if you don't."

Patrick clenched his eyes shut for a moment. Fuck, he really didn't want to see it. He just wanted to walk away, or, keep his eyes closed until it was over.

 

Shit.

 

Obedience was screwing him over in the worst of ways.

 

Patrick opened his eyes, letting them squint both at the beams of light, and at the priest, chanting the final, echoing words of 'All hail'.

It didn't take long until the blade was slicing, sliding through the man's skin easily. The mans- or, fuck, the _sacrifice's_ hands balled into fists, he tensed all over, and he gave an audible grunt, back arching and trembling with what Patrick assumed was unbearable pain.

Patrick couldn't tear his eyes away, as much as he wanted to. He couldn't disappoint-

No, no that had nothing to do with it. He just- he'd mark himself out even more if he tried to leave, and shit- he was already under scrutiny after the temple.

 

Slowly, the knife raised to the man's neck, and as the point lay over pale skin lightly, just teetering on cutting through, Patrick could hardly take it anymore.

He grabbed Pete's hand, trying to keep it subtle through desperation as he laced their fingers, gripping as tightly as he could. Patrick was sure his knuckles were white, but apart from an initial jump, Pete didn't jerk away or shake his head.

No, instead, Pete's thumb swiped over his knuckles, and his hand squeezed with Patrick's reassuringly.

He was grateful, but that didn't stop the feeling of nausea creeping through him as the blade pressed down.

Patrick gulped deeply, but steeled himself as the knife slid through the Adam's apple, sending the blood pouring and pooling in the ridges of the table.

 

It didn't take long before Patrick understood why the buckets were there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One guy, three horses, and two pigs later- plus a lot of buckets filled to the brims with red, and Patrick was finally allowed to stumble away from the ring.

 

Fuck, okay, okay- it was fine, it was totally okay. Patrick had been telling himself that for an entire afternoon, but it still didn't seem to calm the writhing in the pit of his stomach.

 

He could hear Pete's voice, but it wasn't addressing him, and it sounded far too distant in his ears. When Patrick finally stuttered to a stop, he moved to lean against a tree. He just needed like…five minutes; Y'know, to just, _process_ _it_ all.

  
That wasn't what he'd expected to see first thing that day, and while he knew some ritualistic shit would no doubt go down, Patrick really didn't think Pete would've made him _watch_ like that.

 

For all the sympathy he'd shown up until now, well, Patrick hadn't expected it in the slightest. But, at the same time…he understood. If anything, Pete had been too lenient until now.

 

All in all- Patrick needed to _grow up_ , as harsh as it sounded.

  
Sure, he was young- younger than Pete, that was for sure, but he couldn't be babied forever. At some point or another, he really needed to wake up.

Maybe if he would've stayed in Kent, it would've been different. Maybe he would've never seen something as…bone-chilling as what had happened on that table, hell- maybe he would've never held a sword outside of training.

 

But he wasn't in Kent anymore, and it was doubtful he'd ever go back and live the life he'd once had, so what was the point of mourning it?

Patrick had tried to convince himself to leave it behind, but once again, he was far too good at complaining. And far too bad at letting things go.

 

Patrick sighed to himself deeply, but kept his knees locked as they threatened to let him slip to the ground. He'd learn one day. He'd definitively grow the hell up, and he'd get over it, but today was not that day.

 

"Patrick?"

 

Patrick forced back a sigh and glanced upwards, only to find Brendon and Dallon, eyebrows quirked and eyes concerned. Brendon tried first, smile small and knowing. "Feeling okay?"

Patrick stifled another exhale and only nodded, expecting the string of reassurances and relatable laments that would pour from him in a second.

 

"I know it's kinda… _shocking_ , at first, but trust me, by day three, you won't even bat an eye-"

 

The thing was, he and Brendon were fundamentally different people.

Brendon had been happy to get kidnapped and brought to live with pagans. He was good at fighting, he'd accepted their religion overnight, he was happy here. Patrick supposed that this was peachy keen in comparison to being forced into priesthood, but the point still stood:

 

Brendon belonged, and Patrick didn't.

 

As soon as it became obvious that no, Patrick wasn't really listening, Dallon's hand was on his shoulder, and the two were ushering him towards an unlit campfire.  
It was surrounded by people he didn't recognize, but the two sat beside him, and quickly moved to ignore the others- despite a few acknowledging nods.

"It'll be okay, Patrick." Brendon's smile was small and his nudge at Patrick's ribs was gentle. Patrick said nothing, he only kept his eyes trained downwards.  
He appreciated Brendon's try at helping, but his own crises were much more engrossing than any conversation they could've hoped to have. As shitty as that sounded.

 

Patrick knew he needed to grow up, but, would forcing it work? He hoped it would, this state of perpetual meekness and the consequence pity were unbearable. Half of Patrick wanted to run away, save himself the struggle and the stares, but the other wanted him to just man up.  
But- screw it. It wasn't like he could fake it; Sure, he could pretend on the outside, but if he was still a sniveling kid on the inside, what would it matter?

 

Dallon and Brendon stopped trying eventually, but they didn't leave. Patrick resigned himself to resting his head in his hands, and watching the unlit ring of stones as the minutes slipped by.

 

 

 

 

As the minutes became hours, people brought logs and sticks and coal, piling them neatly and stacking them expertly. And when the sun set, drifting across the sky and dropped behind the mountains, the pit burst to life, with an organized cacophony of red, orange and yellow flame.

 

Wait. Fire. They lit a- oh shit, it was nighttime? Already? Patrick had really wasted a whole day away, just with sulking and lamenting how fucking childish he was?

 

Wow, as though he hadn't felt totally pathetic already. Patrick sighed to himself and moved to stand, but before he knew it, an arm was looped around his shoulders, and-

 

Tyler?

 

Well, okay- Tyler, was actually smiling for once, and spoke in a…friendly voice, that instantly put Patrick on edge. "Look, Christian- I know it's…" He stopped on his word, face scrunching up for a moment before brown eyes brightened. "Weird." Okay. Understatement. "And, you'll get used to it with time, but-"

Tyler shook his shoulders a little as his free hand fished something out of his pocket. He held the fist up to Patrick, before unraveling his fingers to show-

 

Mushrooms.

 

Red, speckled with white dots, and umbrellaed over pale stems.

 

Okay, Patrick had been expecting something else- well, admittedly, he wasn't sure what he'd been expecting but-

 

Tyler quirked a brow in silent question, but Patrick's brow only furrowed for a moment.

This could…potentially be a trick; Maybe they were poison, maybe Tyler wanted revenge for the churches back in Lofoten, but the funny thing here? Patrick didn't fucking care.

He didn't care at all- no, he was gonna start being assertive, and he was gonna be an _adult_.

Patrick nodded, and in a second, one of the plants was shoved into his palm, and Tyler had released his arm with a smile. Tyler quickly dispelled Patrick's unspoken fear of poison, as he tossed one of them into his mouth, and spoke reassuringly through a chewing jaw. "It'll help, Christian."

 

With that, Tyler walked away, coolly but with purpose as he paced towards the bundles of tents past the campfire.

 

 

Patrick looked down at the mushroom in his hand. It was shiny, and bright red- even redder than the apples back in Kent. The white spots bulged out of the skin like tufts, and the stems were shaped as perfectly neat ridges.

He couldn't really recall ever having seen something like it, but hey, if Tyler had eaten one, that meant they couldn't be toxic or anything. Right?

With a shrug to himself, Patrick tossed it into his mouth- face quickly contorting into a grimace. Okay, this was gross- oh god. Patrick shuddered, but powered through. He clenched his eyes shut and swallowed.

 

This…didn't seem weird so far. Huh, maybe these were just like, sweets or something; Well, they didn't fucking taste like them, but Patrick was pretty sure the Northmen ate rotten fish too, so he really wouldn't start doubting their tastes now.

 

Patrick shrugged to himself and paced away from the campfire. He might as well explore a little, maybe check out the forest or something. Yeah, that sounded nice and peaceful, and nice and peaceful was exactly what he needed right now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, okay, this was okey-dokey, brilliant times, awesome life, Patrick was having an all round great time.

Everything was spinning for some reason, but it wasn't bad spinning- it was the good kind, the kind that made stuff look cool, not the kind that made him throw up. Oh, so, positives of his walk so far: The forest was cool, and big, and green.

Sure, it was a little dark round about now, but the lack of light wasn't bothering Patrick in the slightest. It was more interesting like this, sure Patrick had heard a few animals here and there, but it didn't bother him in the slightest.

The trees felt taller, the shadows were deeper, and every sound felt louder to Patrick. Everything looked terrifying, to put it plainly, but for some reason, Patrick wasn't scared. Sure, logic followed that he should've been bolting back to camp right about now, tail between his legs and crying for his mother, and yet.

The silence thrummed in his ears, his skin prickled with the cold, and he couldn't see shit, and yet- Patrick was fine. He felt fine. Great, actually, better than he had since they'd even arrived here.

 

As Patrick trailed past trees and over rocks and roots, he finally came to a tree. It was tall, jutted out in the midst of the others, and it seemed to wind up into the sky endlessly.

Patrick cocked his head and squinted upwards, doing his best to follow the twisting branches through his spinning vision.

The sound of creaking made him jump back, and as two, splintering branches shot out from its sides. They grew, stretching out near to a meter before stopping with a shudder. Okay, now, Patrick wasn't an expert on trees, by any means, but he was pretty sure branches didn't grow like that.

 

He shook his head, rubbing at his eyes, but the moment they fluttered open again, two owls were sat on either branch, staring down at him in silence. Silent owls, cool, totally not weird, or unnatural, or anything.

 

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

 

Patrick jumped with a yelp as his head snapped around to the voice.

 

It was a goat.

 

Okay.

 

Sure, he was internally screaming right now, but okay.

 

Actually, now that he looked at it, maybe 'goat' wasn't the right word. It was tall, much taller than Patrick that was for sure, and it resembled a human well enough; It was shrouded in a black cloak, but from its neck upwards- was a goat's head.

Fluffy, white fur, and yellow eyes with split irises- the whole 'goat' deal. Patrick wasn't sure whether he was hallucinating, or losing his mind; Hey, maybe seeing those sacrifices had finally broken the last piece of his mind, that would make sense.

 

The goat- fuck, Patrick still wasn't over it, sighed heavily and shook its head. It's mouth didn't move at it spoke, but somehow, Patrick could still hear the voice. And he was actually surprised he hadn't passed out yet. He was doing great.

 

"Did you hear me?" Its hands, covered by long, loose, black sleeves, came to sit on its hips. "Why are you out here- do you know how late it is, mister?"

 

Patrick's mouth had been parted for a good minute at this point, but regardless of how much he tried to just form a goddamn word, only croaky squeaks escaped him. "I- Wha- you- I-"

 

"Oh god child, just- don't pass out, I really can't deal with that right now." Patrick's mouth snapped shut, and he nodded shakily. The goat sighed in relief. Patrick was going crazy.

 

"What- what are you, I'm not sure what- like, you're a goat and I'm kinda freaking out-"

 

"Whoa whoa whoa-" The goat held up a sleeve, waving it slightly. "Just chill, alright?" Patrick nodded quickly, pulling his mouth into a line to refrain from actually crying or just throwing up more words.

The goat leant forwards a little, towering over Patrick as it did so. "Promise me you won't pass out."

 

Patrick gulped, but nodded. The goat nodded back curtly, but leant back casually. "Well, I'm pretty sure you humans like calling me the Kyrkogrim- or, _the_ _Church Grim_. So, _hi_ , I guess. Time for your year walk."

A whine hit the back of Patrick's throat, and he could feel his hands trembling from where they sat at his sides. "I d-don't- I don't know what that is- what you are- whatareyou, I mean- I'm n-not-"

 

"Ohmygods- are you not from around here or something?"

 

Patrick nodded and gulped. "Exactly."

 

The Grim's eyes widened slightly, but it only took a second before it relented with a sigh. "Alright, follow me kid."

 

Patrick didn't know why he followed, this obedience thing was really fucking him over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This was the weirdest day of Patrick's life.

 

Hands down, he'd never experienced something this strange.

 

He was sat on a rock, eyes wide and body frozen over as the goat sat opposite him, perched on a fallen tree trunk. It'd been silent the entire time, bar a few sounds from the river behind them and from the trees, but apart from that

 

The goat sent him a questioning look. "Dude. You're kinda quiet, you're freaking me out." Patrick jumped and held back a whine. He smiled apologetically, "Uh, I just- I'm sorry, I'm just-"

 

"Oh hey pal! Who's your friend?"

 

A horse.

 

White, pale eyes, and all parts freaky.

 

Fuck, Patrick was expecting an entire menagerie at this point. It climbed out of the river, wearing the same black cloak that was reminding Patrick of the Grim Reaper just a little too much.

The Grim sighed heavily, and crossed its arms. "Dude, look- this kid's nervous, like, go-"

 

"Aw, why are you nervous buddy?" Patrick couldn't help but lean away as the horse perched down on the grass next to him. The Grim sighed, "He's tripping balls, why the fuck d'you think he's nervous?"

 

"Oh wait, is he year walking?"

 

A woman. Pale, blonde, ethereal and seemingly covered in leaves, stepped out from behind tree. Her hair was laced with branches, and her eyes were the same pale colour Patrick had gotten so used to seeing.

 

Patrick whined and gave it a wide-eyed stare. "What am I doing again-"

Both the woman and the horse glanced towards the Grim, but the latter only shrugged. "Not formally, but, I figure we can help him out, right?"

 

Patrick dropped his head into his hands. Okay, shit, this was too much, he couldn't fucking deal right now- this wasn't real, this couldn't be- this had no business being real-

 

"Hey kid?"

 

Patrick glanced upwards from his hands, finding the three creatures staring at him blankly. The woman leant forwards. "Who are you?"

Patrick barely spluttered out his name, but somehow, the creatures nodded at his trembling, incoherent stutter. "P-Pat-trick."

"And you're not from around here, so I suppose you don't know how this works, right?" Patrick shook his head. Wait- why the actual fuck was he even trying to hold a conversation here-

 

"You're holding a conversation with us because it's the polite thing to do, bud." Patrick froze, eyes flicking over to the horse. Shit. They could hear his thoughts? Oh fuck, he wasn't even safe there? This stupid fucking goat and that fucking horse-

 

"You are literally hallucinating us, this is your own brain's fault, alright- so cut it out with the insults."

 

Patrick winced. "Sorry."

 

The Grim narrowed its eyes, "Damn right 'sorry'-" Patrick rolled his eyes, a tiny smile spreading over his face. "Alright, I'm-"

 

" _Sorry_ -"

"Yes, we know you're _sorry_ -"

"It's okay, sweetheart."

 

Patrick squinted, a spark of something braver lurching through him. "So, why am I hallucinating you? Exactly? And why are you so scary?"

 

"Moral of the story, _Rick_ -" The horse leant forwards, "Don't take mushrooms from people, _it's dangerous_."

Patrick's mouth curled into a perfect 'o', as a heavy curtain of regret cast over him. "Right…yeah…probably shouldn't have done that."

 

"No, probably not, dumbass-"

 

Patrick scoffed at the horse- who was seriously trying to sass him right now. "Whoa, tone it down dude-"

The Grim sighed heavily. "Alright, look, whatever- Point is, you're seeing us for a reason." Patrick quirked an eyebrow, "And that reason is?"

 

The horse chuckled and leant forwards with a nod. "You're having a nervous breakdown."

Patrick froze for a moment, before chuckling laughing awkwardly and shifting his eyes from side to side. "…You're kidding, right?"

The woman elbowed the horse in the shoulder, "Yeah, he's just being-" She tutted and straightened up to look at Patrick seriously. "You've been having some issues, right?"

 

Patrick squinted. "What exactly do you mean by 'issues'?" The horse was by his side in a second. It clapped a sleeve on Patrick's shoulder, cocking its head firmly. "You're having teenage angst struggles, I get it." It shrugged.

 

"And by issues, I mean you're being a little bitch."

 

Patrick scoffed. Loudly. "Uh- excuse you, that's-"

"I mean," The Grim shrugged from the tree trunk. "He's not wrong?" Patrick gaped, head flicking from one creature to the others. "You- You're supposed to be on _my_ side."

The horse nodded deeply, before pinching Patrick's cheek with a tilt of its head. "Exactly, we just want what's _best for you buddy_ -"

 

Patrick groaned and jerked away, but neither of the pale creatures seemed phased. The human sighed heavily, shrugging lazily as he finally relented. "Alright, fine. What's best for me?"

The horse's long face blanked, voice taking on a more existential tone. "I mean technically we're just personifications of your own fears, taking the forms of mythological creatures Pete's told you about."

 

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "Uh…okay-"

 

"And technically, you're just wandering around a forest and talking to yourself, but you don't know that, but I guess you do now, huh. Anyway- we don't really know what's best for you." It leaned up closer. "We're just your repressed arguments."

 

Patrick couldn't help the way his jaw loosened. "Repressed arguments?"

 

The Grim sighed from the bench. "Yep, all that shit you keep denying to yourself."

Patrick scoffed again, "I don't deny shit-"  
  
All three creatures groaned and spoke in unison.

 

"Yes you do."

"You really do."

"I'm sorry, but you do."

 

Patrick made a high, indignant noise and stood, brow pulled low and mouth curled into a tight frown. "I do not!"

The Grim crossed its arms lazily, and leaned back, tilting its head. "Wanna bet bitch?"

 

A half-goat man had just called him a bitch.

 

Patrick was really regretting eating that mushroom.

 

"You're damn right I called you a bitch." The Grim only gave a dramatic sigh. "Because you _are_ one, _Susan_." Patrick shook his head, face contorted into nothing but irritation. "I am _not_ -"

 

"You're too much of a bitch to admit you actually like Lutefisk. I know that for sure." The horse piped up from his side, standing up with a knowing nod.

Patrick's face had been lax in horror for a good few minutes, but it only got worse at the mention of the salted, rotten fish. "Lutefisk is an abomination against _humanity_ -"

 

"And you love it. So deal with it."

 

Patrick's eye twitched, but the woman only spoke up again. "And you like training. As much as you complain, it's fun, right? Swinging a sword around makes you feel powerful- especially now that you're getting good at it."

The horse nodded and hummed in agreement. "Pete's a better teacher than Kevin was."

 

Well shit, _that_ was true. Pete actually listened to-

 

"All of it's true, you just like denying it." The Grim was adamant, and Patrick was starting to feel his resolve crack away into pieces.

 

"You also like Dog! I mean, I get it, he's really cute." Patrick squinted at the woman. "Dog's a fleabag who won't stop growling at me."

"Oh don't even start, you cuddled him like, a week ago and he was fluffy as hell-" The Grim pointed a stern sleeve. "And you know it."

 

Patrick sighed and fell back onto the rock, rubbing a hand through his hair and running small circles under his skull, under which sat the culprit of this insane night.

 

"Well, seeing as we're being honest." The horse crouched down again, tilting his head at Patrick. "You believe in their Gods, don't you?"

Patrick made a strangled sound, that had initially supposed to be an objection, but the horse only sighed and continued.

 

"It makes sense to you, doesn't it? You want to believe it, but you're scared." Patrick shook his head, eyes falling shut as he buried his face in his hands, all as the woman's voice rang through his ears.

 

"You're losing your faith, but you're replacing it with a new one. And that's okay, Patrick. You're allowed to do that."

 

"I can't." Was the only argument Patrick could muster, along with a shake of his head. The horse only sighed again, "There's no point in dragging it out. It'll happen one day, might as well be today." Fuck, they were right. He'd gone back and forth on this so many times, he'd agonized over it, he'd lost sleep over it- but, it was pointless, ultimately.

 

He didn't believe in his God anymore.

 

He believed in theirs.

 

"Of course I'm right, I'm _you_ , dumbass." The voice was too fond for Patrick to get mad, so he only smiled shakily as the horse patted his head with a sleeve. The Grim nodded contentedly, before its yellow eyes widened brightly. "Oh- screw this _God_ thing," He stood and paced over to crouch in front of Patrick.

 

"You're in love with Pete."

 

No. No, Patrick wasn't letting that one slide. He rocked up onto his feet, with balled fists and a firm featured face. "I am _not_."

 

The horse whistled lowly. "Now that's what I call bullshit, ladies and gentlemen." Patrick glared. "Shut up. You're a horse. You should be pulling a plough. Go fuck yourself."

It didn't seem offended, and instead, the horse only tilted its head, speaking in a sugary sweet voice. "Uh, I'm a Bäckahäst- I drown people, and my spine grows a vertebrae longer with every one of my victims actually. Educate yourself, sweetie."

 

Patrick held back a whine, but he was quickly shaking the fear out of his head again. These things were figments of his imagination; Sure, they were bringing up stuff he tried to push away, stuff that made him bristle, stuff that made him uncomfortable, but Patrick could endure- and besides, they couldn't actually hurt him.

 

"I don't like Pete. Not like that." He bit nails into his palm, shaking his head firmly as the three creatures gave each other dubious glances.

"He's- he's fine, as a person, but I don't- I don't like him in that way." Patrick shrugged, letting his voice raise an octave as he started trying to convince himself, rather than the spirits. "B-Besides, we're both men, and it's literally not biologically possible, and it's just- wrong, and immoral, and God says it's a sin, and I'm not trying to get sent to Hell."

 

The horse tilted its head dubiously.

 

"Sure Jan."

 

Patrick's eye twitched, but the Grim quickly took the reigns again. "Look. Bro. Half of those points are just moot." The Grim shook its head, "First of all, pretty sure we've already established you don't believe in God-"

 

" _I_ never-"

 

"Right at this moment, you're yelling at yourself in a forest, alright?" The horse crossed its arms, voice stern and accusatory. "You confirmed it, and when your mushroom thingy wears off, your decisions right now are gonna start kicking in. Okay?"

Patrick gulped. Shit, he wished he could wake up from his stupor sooner; This conversation was heading down a dangerous road he wasn't liking the look of.

 

"Well, anyway." The woman smiled softly, trying to calm the electric tension in the air, before widening her eyes back at Patrick. "You're not gonna get sent to Hell. And- it's not a sin for you, not anymore."

The Grim nodded quickly, trying its best to reassure Patrick. "And, don't worry about the _technical stuff_ -"

Patrick mustered a glare; He didn't even want to know what this asshole meant by 'technical stuff'.

 

"Dude- stop insulting us, we can hear it y'know." The horse sighed from where it stood, but just as Patrick moved to grimace and apologize- the woman smiled at him gently from the fallen tree.

 

She stood and paced towards him calmly. She lay a pale hand on his shoulder, fingers light but comforting. "You are, and you know you are."

The Grim nodded and pointed at her, acknowledging her words. "She's right, dude. If you didn't know that, we wouldn't be saying it."

 

Patrick stared.

 

And Patrick's lip trembled.

 

He grunted and stamped out of frustration, trying to avert watery eyes. The three creatures were silent when Patrick finally mustered enough courage to look back at them.

 

"…Can I at least try to argue?"

 

The three chuckled softly, but their tones only held sympathy. The woman shook her head softly, "You can, if you want." Her eyes flitted to Patrick's. "But you know there's no point."

 

She was right. And Patrick resented her for it. Fuck- not really, he just didn't know how to feel; It was all too much, too soon, and he just-

 

"Alright look-" The horse grabbed Patrick's free shoulder. "She's like, your empathetic side, but I'm bitchy central, alright?"

Patrick whined, eyes rolling as the horse stared at him seriously. "Here's what you're gonna do." The stare was firm, and Patrick almost found himself shirking under it, waiting for the no doubt wise, inspirational, yet harsh words, that might come from the horse.

 

"You're gonna fuck the dude."

 

Patrick rolled his eyes. Heavily. Like, so much so, his eyes ached. He was pretty sure he'd broken an artery or something, shit-

"Your eye's fine- but look-" The horse took his other shoulder with his free sleeve, shaking him slightly. "You're gonna march out there, you're gonna go find Pete, and you're gonna fuck the dude."

 

Patrick squinted. "I'd rather not-"

 

"Like a trooper." The Bäckahäst nodded. "And don't bother lying, I'm only suggesting this because _you're_ the one thinking about it."

 

Patrick glanced at the Grim and the woman for help, but they only gave him apologetic looks and shrugs. The human rolled his eyes again, another spark of bravery going through him. "Well, you know what?"

The horse gave a faux-interested hum, " _What_?"

Patrick glared. "I'm an adult-"

 

"Arguable."

 

"Who can make his own decisions-"

 

"Not likely. There's a reason you're hallucinating us to cope."

 

Patrick inhaled. Patrick exhaled. "And I am not, gonna give into peer pressure-" He glared at the three of them. "From myself."

The horse sighed and looped his arm around Patrick's shoulders. "Alright buddy. But when you wake up, you're gonna be a whole new man."

 

Patrick scoffed. "Doubtful."

 

The Grim nodded slowly. "And you're gonna want that d-"

 

"Okay. All of you can, _officially_ , fuck off-"

 

 

"Patrick?"

 

 

Patrick turned with a jolt, eyes wide and mouth wider as he stared out into the forest. He squinted through the trees, and before he'd even blinked again, Pete stumbled through them.

His eyes were wide, and he looked pale- and, plain worried.

 

The moment brown eyes landed on him, Pete lurched forwards with a heavy sigh. "Ahtakkgudene- Patrick-" His hands locked on Patrick's shoulders, eyes raking over him as they only grew more and more concerned. "What happened to you? Why- You went off into the forest? Alone?" Pete's brow furrowed, his voice raising and firmer than Patrick had ever really heard it before- at least, when directed at him.

A sudden bout of freezing cold wracked him, all of it attacking him at once. He could barely muster a word for chattering teeth and shivering bones, and his only resolve was to stare at Pete, wide-eyed.

"Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Anything could've- Helvete, Patrick-" Pete pressed a warm hand over his forehead, grimacing as he did so. "Faen, you're frozen." He shook his head, looping an arm around Patrick's shoulders and ushering him away towards the trees he'd come from. "Come on, you need a fire."

 

Patrick nodded gratefully, but, with a blink, he remembered the creatures.

 

Though Pete was ridiculously warm, and all he wanted to do was cuddle up to him right now, he craned his neck to look behind him.

He stared back at the river, back at the rock and the log, but nothing was there. Patrick paled. Shit, he really _had_ been yelling at himself in a forest for the entire night. Awesome.

 

And, while Patrick was pretty sure the mushroom had worn off by the time the lights of the campfires had come back into view through the last bastion of trees, rustling behind him made him glance back again. But, once again- nothing, there was only-

 

He was gonna fuck the guy. He wasn't sure how, he wasn't sure when- but he was gonna make it happen.

 

Patrick's brow pulled down into a determined furrow, and his mouth curled into an equally focused smile. He glanced up at Pete, before stopping dead in his tracks and digging his heels into the soil of the forest. They were almost back, the promise of campfires and blankets he really needed sat behind a row of trees, but Patrick didn't particularly care.

 

Pete hadn't even managed a word before Patrick had pushed him back into one of the trees. He pressed his lips to Pete's, letting a low groan escape him as he snaked his hands into dark hair. The strands were almost brittle between his fingers, caked over by days of sweat and smoke. His lips tasted the same, salty but flavourless like water, all while still being _Pete_.

The older man seemed frozen, however, but it only lasted an exact three seconds before Pete was all over him; Hands in his hair, lips discontent with staying on his mouth, and hips already arching and demanding.

 

Pete was intent on eating him alive, apparently.

Every inch of his skin from neck, to Adam's apple, to collarbone was lapped, bitten and kissed wetly under Pete's mouth, and Patrick only resolved to cling over his shoulders with a soft mewls, a wicked smile, and blown pupils.

He was already enjoying this a little too much, and, had he not been about to contract frostbite, he might've made the effort to stay there; Cold against Pete, hips arched together, and familiar lips on his neck with a new kind of fervor.

 

But, since Patrick was pretty sure fingers would start dropping in two minutes, he untangled himself from Pete gracefully, before hopping back nimbly.

 

He drowned out Pete's almost-growl with a pat to his cheek, all while his face wore a lightly mocking pout. "I'm gonna go find a fire, Pete."

And with the, apparently devastating words- if the look on Pete's face was any indication, Patrick waltzed through the last row of trees and happily strode over to the nearest campfire.

 

 

He didn't bother with small talk to the people he didn't know, and instead, made a beeline until his hands were firmly over the fire, palms rubbing together quickly.

It didn't take long before Pete had moved up to his side, silent and trying to catch his gaze with glances Patrick purposefully ignored. He was _not_ make this easy; If Pete was committed here, he'd have to make an effort.

 

It didn't take long before the first attempt came.

 

Pete nudged him in the ribs gently, voice low and cautious. "Can I- Can I talk to you?" Patrick smiled sweetly, cocking his head with crinkled eyes. "Go ahead."

Pete blinked, but quickly glanced around with a flitting stare. "I mean privately." Patrick tilted his head further, sweet smile remaining, " _Sure_."

 

Pete squinted for a mere second, before quickly wrapping a hand around Patrick's arm and pulling him away with purpose.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They stumbled through the draped tent, and before Patrick had even mustered a single word, he was pinned to the bed roll paved floor, firmly trapped between sinewy thighs and darkly marked arms.

Pete was quick to retake his rightful place, face buried in a pale shoulder crook and tongue laving over skin with a good amount of enthusiasm.  
Patrick couldn't help his snort of laughter, that went completely ignored by Pete- who had decided to move onto collarbones, nipping at them with desperation.

 

"I thought you wanted to talk."

Patrick weaved a hand through Pete's hair, his teeth clamping down on his bottom lip as Pete nipped at the pit of his collarbones.

The older man only groaned, crawling upwards and catching Patrick in an insistent kiss that was, admittedly, weakening his knees a little. Pete's hands were skimming everywhere, and they'd started feeling like a constant blur by the time one had slipped under his shirt.

 

"On a scale of one to ten," Pete interrupted his words with a wet peck to Patrick's jaw, short beard scraping him like electricity. "How cold are you?"

Patrick hummed quietly for a moment, simply enjoying the feel of Pete's open lips drifting down the length of his neck, leaving soft wetness, and scratchy dryness in its wake. "Like, a six, seven- somewhere around there."

 

Pete sighed into his skin, the breath rolling over only coaxing a shudder and a smile. The dark-haired man quirked an eyebrow down at him, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. "D'you think you can survive without this?" There was a tug at his shirt, and Patrick could only sigh.

A hand to Pete's chest, he pushed the man back and leant up all at once. He only supplied a sighed smile before tugging his shirt off, with no real argument or hesitation.

 

Darkened, starved eyes encapsulated his vision the second Patrick lay back, and soon enough, hands were snaking to his pants, movements demanding. The eyes begged the same question, and Patrick could only smirk and nod.

 

 

 

 

It didn't take that long before Patrick was bare as the day his born, and not to mention, clinging to Pete like he was a lifeline. That wasn't too far from the truth actually, Pete was really keeping him afloat in more ways than one. He'd never thanked him.

 

The thought dampened Patrick's spirits a little, but it quickly blanked into nothing as Pete slid between his legs.

 

Patrick, admittedly, had no experience in this field. Even women were completely foreign to him here, so understandably, men were alien.

 

As though he was an answer to his prayers, Pete smiled up at him. He squeezed at pale thighs with golden hands, before rubbing his cheek against the inside. Patrick swallowed a moan as white teeth bit into the scratched redness with purpose, jaw clenched and tongue laving over.

He shifted back, opting to press wet kisses rather than bites as he stared up at Patrick. "I've wanted to do this for- faen, feels like years."

A slow, dreamy smile crossed Patrick's face, and he could only toss his head to the side with a whine. He considered telling Pete to just get the fuck on with it, but the other recognized that, Pete knew what he was doing, whereas Patrick, did not.

 

Pete seemed to be good at picking up on his silent cues, however, and moved to nibble at the bone of Patrick's left hip- making a point of ignoring his cock, that was steadily twitching from where it strained against his stomach. Patrick moaned, hands twitching and unsure on what to do; Blankets or Pete, Pete or blankets?

 

He glanced down, finding and feeling the trail of kisses striping over the swell of his thigh. Patrick bit down on his lip, and threaded his fingers into the blankets; He shouldn't really interfere at this point, he'd been interfering for too long.

 

This was an experiment, that's what Patrick had resolved to tell himself. An experiment to see what happened when he just let go, when he just let things happen; No fighting, no kicking and screaming, no complaints, just acceptance…to a point.

This didn't seem to be crossing any horrific lines, however, and, no-

 

" _Oh god_ \- _Pete_ -" The words are a gasped squeak, and Patrick doesn't know their cause.

 

Pete's head is buried between his legs, and Patrick doesn't have the energy to lean upwards and try to analyse his every movement. He can feel a tongue, warm, wet and flicking in little licks, and he's not entirely sure _where_ it is, but Patrick has a pretty big suspicion-

Patrick's head tossed back into the blankets, mouth parted in a loud, unashamed moan. Fuck, he doesn't know what's going on, he's never felt anything remotely similar to this, but fuck, he can't bring himself to stop Pete.

His thighs tense, muscles bulging and hands firing down to grab Pete's hair in fistfuls. He's pretty sure he's gonna rip it out when Pete's hot breath rolls over between his legs. His toes curl, his back arches, his words only escape through a choked breath.

"Pete-" A gratuitous moan follows the word; That word, that fucking word. The only thing on his mind, the only thing he can bear to think, spelled out and blurring every other thought out.

 

There's a white hot burn in the pit of his stomach, and it reaches the corners of his vision more than once. Every time it does, Patrick tenses all over, his thighs tremble, his eyes roll, but just as he's climbing over the steep hill of god knows what- Pete moves away, and takes to kissing his thighs again.

 

But, at around the fourth time Patrick gasped a high moan, one of Pete's hands slid to curl around the base of his cock, and the other…the other did something Patrick could only moan at.

 

Fingers- he knows they're fingers, and, they're inside him, somehow- oh wait. Ew, _goddammit_ \- but then the fingers scissor, and Patrick feels like he's on his way to Heaven.

 

Patrick can't even make a sound, and his eyes are stubbornly closed as Pete's mouth is on his ear, nipping at an undiscovered shell.

The hand around his cock is squeezing and stationary, but the fingers settled inside him are slick and long, and in occasional flashes of clarity, Patrick can hardly believe he's here, doing this. "Yes yes yes-" Patrick's head tips back in another moan, and Pete takes the golden opportunity of an exposed neck, one half unmarked and fresh for the taking.

 

Pete's mouth moves to hover over his ear again, and Patrick can practically hear the hunger behind the words. "No one's ever done this before, have they?"

 

Patrick feels drunk. Pure and simple. It reminds him of that one Christmas his parents were too lenient with the wine.

 

He chews on his lips, but shakes his head fervently. "No- no, god- no, s'just you- you-" Pete pulls away entirely, fingers, mouth, breath- all of its gone, and Patrick opens his eyes in complaint.

 

Pete's leaned back between his legs, sat on his heels with a hand stroking himself steadily. There's another drawing above it, just over the flat of Pete's groin; It's a raven, wings spread and etched dark into bronze skin. Patrick idly wonders how much that one hurt.

 

Pete's hard, thick, and leaking, and it fills Patrick with a kind of want he's never known he needed before.

 

Pete's lip is trapped between teeth as he inches forwards, lining himself up to- goddammit, but- Patrick whines, hips rocking down in an effort to speed it all along. He can feel Pete there, the blunt head just against him, a thrust forwards from breaching.

Bronzed hands hold his hips, fingertips pressing but grip gentle. Equally bronze eyes rake over him, full of want, but flickered with something like…regret. But just as panic flares through Patrick, Pete speaks; voice low, soft, and, actually, _fond_. "Should've done this earlier."

Patrick only nods, because really, what else can he say to that?

 

One last glance upwards, and Pete pushes in.

 

It's so unlike anything Patrick's ever felt before. The white heat almost bursts, but Patrick just about holds it together with a long, needy moan as Pete finally presses home.

It hurts, in a way, but Patrick's too overwhelmed, too engrossed in Pete to care.

The older of the two leans over, kissing Patrick hard as he moves a hand to spread Patrick's legs just that little bit wider. Patrick takes it one step further; He curls them around Pete's waist, digging his heels into the small of his back.

 

 

 

 

It doesn't take long for a rhythm to emerge, a pattern that lacks finesse, but doesn't need it. It's not like the intricate melodies of harp, it's the beat of a drum, and Patrick's pretty quick to realize he infinitely prefers it.

It's Pete, in every sense of the word. It's Pete's hands planted either side of his head, it's Pete's thighs pressing into the back of his, it's Pete's mouth sloppily kissing his jaw, it's Pete's hips ramming into his, and it's Pete's cock pounding into him. And Patrick has never felt more ecstatic.

 

There's a litany of everything from ' _Oh_ 's, to ' _Pete_ 's, to strings of blasphemy pouring out of Patrick's swollen mouth like an incomprehensible waterfall. But, as Pete's rhythm speeds up, as his jaw clenches, as his breathing shudders and stutters- the words fall into sounds instead.

 

The keens and cries are deafening, shameless, and every one begs for oxygen his lungs struggle to supply.

 

He's pretty much screaming by the time Pete moans a warning into his ear. "I'm close- I'm-" The words are punctured by a growled curse Patrick can hardly understand; Shit, it's not like he can understand much right now anyway. If someone asked him something as basic as, 'Is the sky blue?' Patrick was pretty sure he'd say it was red.

 

 

With a hummed groan, Patrick buries his hands in Pete's damp hair, and burrows his face into a golden neck. Sweat is rolling from Pete like a river, but Patrick can hardly bring himself to care; He's pretty sure he's the same.

It takes Pete pulling out, and ramming back in for the white heat to explode like a volcano. Patrick freezes, everything is tense and taut and trembling. He can't remember his name, he doesn't know who he is, all he can think is _Pete, Pete, Pete_.

He clings to Pete like he's the only thing keeping the world balanced, and with a squeaked twitch and a gasped convulsion, Patrick collapses with a sinful moan, boneless and only held up by Pete's arms. Everything from his stomach to his chest is striped by thick, hot, and white ropes, but Patrick can hardly bring himself to bitch about it.

 

He feels Pete's hips roll deep once more before he's moaning Patrick's name obscenely; Eyes squeezed closed, brow furrowed as sweat rolls from it, and mouth parted in nothing but a chant of Patrick's name. Something warm fills Patrick in spurts, all as Pete's breathing grows steady and as his hipbones twitch.

Pete's head throws back as Patrick watches him come down from his stupor, and it only takes another twitch forwards before Pete's pulling out, leaving Patrick oddly…empty. It's unlike anything Patrick has ever felt before, but then Pete's curling up beside him, and Patrick doesn't want to think anymore.

 

 

His arms are warm and solid, and an appreciated anchor for Patrick- who's still trembling all over. Pete shuffles around, and pulls a mountain of loose blankets over them, everything from cloth to fur covering flushed, bitten, and sticky skin.

 

They pant against each other, both sets of eyes fallen closed and four lungs burning for air.

 

Patrick presses his damp forehead against Pete's chest, Adam's apple bobbing in time with every fifth of his breaths. Patrick's always been good at keeping time, rhythm always came naturally to him; Too bad it didn't really apply anywhere useful.

 

Pete's hand is carding through his hair now, and Patrick's finally coaxed his eyes open to stare at nothing but the necklace of ash thorns, pressed into Pete's skin over his collarbones; Patrick _bets_ those hurt like hell.

 

There's something proud in his chest, however. He did what he set out to do, and it was better than he'd ever imagined it would be. Patrick smiled slowly; He needed to do it more, that was a certainty.

And in a way, he'd gone through with the plan laid out by the…horse…in the…Wait, that- that had actually happened?

Patrick's mind was surprisingly clear, if not a little sleepy, and it seemed to just be kicking in that-

 

"I love you, Patrick." Pete's voice was low, and breathless, but the words…Well, they were enough to clear his mind of anything else.

Patrick shuffled upwards, just until he was eye level with Pete. He smiled dreamily as he ran a hand over Pete's cheek, watching the bristle of the coarse hairs there under his fingers.

His eyes shifted back to Pete's; Dark, lidded, and watching him intently, probably patiently waiting for an answer to his question.

Patrick smiled softly, pushing Pete's shoulder down until the older of the two was lying on his back. Laying a kiss to his throat, Patrick hummed quietly as he draped himself over Pete; Legs bracketing hips, arms by his sides, and cheek against a golden chest.

 

He murmured the words back into skin, "I love you too, Pete." And Patrick's shoulders felt a million times lighter. Pete huffed quietly, somewhere between bemused, relieved, and loving, and he quickly pulled the blankets snug around them again.

 

He pressed a kiss to Patrick's hair, still damp and sticking to his forehead in dark strands, and Patrick sighed contentedly. He only mumbled again once he was on the brink of sleep, but Pete didn't even try and chase the thought. He only kissed Patrick's hair again, and ran a hand over his back.

 

 

"Screw you horse. Who's the bitch now?"

 

"...Goodnight Patrick."

 

 

 

 


	10. Money Can Be Exchanged For Goods And Services

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, exams are bitches, I'm so sorry lol, I'm doing my best to keep this regular.

 

"So," Pete cocked his head at Patrick curiously. "How was it this time?"

 

Stepping over a fallen branch, Patrick chewed on the inside of his cheek; Huh, how _had_ it been this time?

On the bright side, it'd been fine; It was the ninth day he'd stood through a sacrifice, and Brendon was right- it'd really lost its shock factor by day three.

He hadn't panicked, he hadn't paled, and well, he hadn't felt on the brink of throwing up- so that was always _nice_.

But, fuck- it scared Patrick to say. He wasn't bothered at watching a man, and six animals, be sliced and drained of everything in them? Something about that felt wrong.

 

And yet, as he glanced over at Pete, finding soft and cautious brown eyes, he couldn't start ranting about his fears. Patrick smiled, and nodded. "It was fine."

A grin split over Pete's face in an instant, eyes flickering between pride and relief. He said nothing, though, and only stepped forwards to push the temple doors open.

 

Patrick held back a groan at the sight of newcomers being splashed by the blood-totally-not-blood, all while a different priest chanted the same words.  
  
Thankfully, Patrick didn't have to be subjected to that again.

 

Well, not until the Blót came around again.

 

In nine years.

 

_Ugh_.

 

Patrick pushed the annoyance aside as he paced behind Pete, who only moved towards one of the twelve statues. A man wearing a cloak, a horned helmet, and holding a scythe in his hand. Both a snake and a wolf stood at his feet, and while Patrick had been squinting at it all intensely, Pete had been quiet.

…But, as always, Pete wasn't one for prolonged silence.

  
"I- I never really asked you, but," Pete squinted slightly. "it must be weird for you, right?" Patrick felt a distant pull that told him to roll his eyes, scoff, maybe repeat some of his words while drowning them in sarcasm…But he didn't feel like doing that. Not anymore.

He nodded instead, letting his eyes rake over the intricate carvings all over the statue. "It was." He gave Pete a small smile. "I'm kinda used to it by now."

Pete chuckled, rubbing a hand over a no doubt sore neck, covered in blotches- courtesy of Patrick. Patrick knew he looked the same, hell- basically everyone had pointed it out _at least_ once.

 

Except for Brendon. Who liked reminding him every time they saw each other. Most of their conversations had consisted of Patrick glowering for the past week.

 

"Did you ever have to get used to it?" Patrick followed as Pete moved over to another statue; A woman with a bitter expression, shrouded in a net and flanked by pieces of broken ship. "Or did you just- deal with it?"

He stopped beside Pete, who only shrugged lightly, with a thoughtful expression on his face. "I was three years old the first time."

 

Three.

 

Holy shit- Three?

 

Patrick had still been scared of his own shadow when he was three- but, Pete had already been watching sacrifices?

 

Patrick couldn't help the blankness on his face, but Pete only smirked at it, shrugging again. "I was fine with it, apparently. That's what my father says." The smirk turned into a lighter grin, "He could be lying, for all I know though."

As Pete moved away to the statue of the one-eyed man, it sparked a question in Patrick.

 

Why was Pete building Christian churches?

 

He hadn't told Patrick, he hadn't told anybody, really, and Patrick despised being out of the loop.

Patrick had been carrying that fucking question around since the fucking monks had arrived, and sure, back then, he probably would never have gotten an answer.

Since that…interesting night, fueled by Tyler's _totally harmless_ drug habits, Pete had been wrapped around his finger, pretty much. It was gonna have some advantages long term, Patrick could see that already, and while he was thankful for it, Pete still refused to answer his question. What did Pete do every time he tried to bring it up?

 

He deflected.

 

Like a goddamn mirror.

 

Pete was pretty fucking good at deflection apparently, and he was fucking shameless. Which made it ten times harder for Patrick to get to the bottom of things.

He'd do everything from 'accidentally' forgetting him in middle of camp- that Patrick still hadn't learnt his way around. To 'accidentally' letting him drink a lot of mead. _A lot_. And not stopping him, or- fuck it, Patrick had had some pretty bad hangovers, and even though he'd technically been the one that wouldn't stop drinking- it was totally Pete's fault.

 

And then there were the tricks.

 

Small, harmless ways of getting Patrick to shut up, and Pete had learnt them disconcertingly quickly.

It'd started with kisses to get him to stop talking, and while those had worked at first- Patrick had toughened up.

And then Pete would do any one of three lovely things that made him go weak at the knees: Bite Patrick's lip, kiss Patrick's neck, or pull him onto his lap- and Patrick would be done for.

And while it had resulted in some nights Patrick had definitely enjoyed _a lot_ \- and that apparently been very loud, _thanks Brendon_ , it didn't change the fact that Pete was _fucking deflecting his questions_ , and Patrick was just nosy enough to _keep_ , _fucking_ , _pressing_.

 

It normally wouldn't have bothered Patrick, but the thing was, he needed 100%, complete, and definitive assurance, that their pagan Gods were real.

 

Thing was, if Patrick was really going to pledge himself to these Gods, if he was going to shatter everything his parents, no shit, his _entire life_ , had instilled in him- there couldn't be any room for doubt.

He wasn't going to accidentally damn his soul, he wasn't going to chase a false idol, if he wasn't _sure_.

 

And right now, Patrick relied way too much on Pete. He'd tried to pull away, but he kept coming back, and Pete didn't seem to mind, so what was the point?

If Pete was having doubts, if he was letting Christians build churches, if he was defying his Gods- how could Patrick believe they were real?

He trusted Pete. He trusted him a lot, maybe even too much, and living somewhere completely alien to him, made Pete his only anchor.

 

If Pete didn't believe, he couldn't either. It was that simple.

 

And that's where the question came in: Why was Pete building Christian churches?

 

If some _pagan_ had shown up at Kent, asking to build churches in exchange for gold, Patrick was pretty sure they would've been exiled- even executed, not _welcomed_.

And besides, it couldn't have been something as weak as- 'Giving his people a religious choice'. No, that was bullshit. Nobody did that.

 

So, as Patrick squinted over at Pete, watching him pray in silence to the statue of a God he wasn't sure he believed in, Patrick had to know.

 

And it didn't matter if he had to press for a day, a month, or a year. Patrick would get his answer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Why are you letting them build churches, Pete?"

 

Pete froze.

 

Gotcha.

 

Patrick made sure to not let Pete out of his sight, and kept his eyes pressing whilst the older man's gaze darted around nervously.

They were a little exposed, true; Sat by a campfire on the outskirts of camp, surrounded by others, waiting for the sun to go down on the final day of Blot. And whatever Pete's answer would be, he assumed he didn't want to announce it to the world.

Patrick sighed, nudging his knee with Pete's and staring at him with pleading eyes. "You can tell me- I mean, it's not like I'm gonna tell anyone."

 

Pete, unlike Patrick, didn't hide his emotions behind twenty layers of pointy rocks. But that didn't mean they were out in the open for the taking either.

 

It wouldn't take much, but Patrick knew the tipping point well enough by now.

 

A soft gaze, a smile, and Pete was starting to crack. Too bad the first things out of his mouth were excuses, but Patrick would get there. Somehow. Fuck, he hoped so.

 

"I just- I- wanted my people to have, a choice- to, I- I didn't want to force them, I- I thought it would, help them, maybe. To compare. Or something." The pure bullshit got quieter as the words went on, but Pete still needed a shove in the right direction. A really fucking hard one.

 

Patrick moved the conversation away, steering it towards training- which Pete seemed to be a lot happier to discuss. As Patrick listened to the ideas Pete had to torture him back at home, he counted.

Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Long enough for Pete to put churches and Christians to the back of his mind.

 

 

When thirty minutes rolled around, Patrick rolled his shoulders and yawned quietly. He let his eyes flutter and droop, before he stood and gave Pete a sleepy look.

"I'm going to bed." The words were always followed by a silent 'Are you coming?' by now, and as expected, Pete nodded.

 

Patrick hid his smile on the way; He wasn't a great liar, but not explicitly telling someone you were planning on interrogating them, technically wasn't lying.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick clenched his eyes shut and buried his face in Pete's shoulder, taking heavy breaths and trying to keep them steady as he came down again.

His skin ached with refreshed bruises, his knees felt weak, and his legs were still trembling, but all things considered, Pete was breathing even harder.

Pete's arms moved to wind around him, gripping tight and holding close, all while Patrick listened to the calming heartbeat and hurriedly tried to come to his senses before Pete did.

 

"Pete-" With a sharp exhale, Patrick pushed Pete onto his back and straddled him, keeping his eyes pressing and wide.

Pete's chest was still rising and falling deeply, and his eyes were still shiny, blown, and black; From bruises, to teeth marks, to swollen lips- Pete looked just as wrecked as Patrick did, and maybe, just maybe, his guard would be down. "You can _tell_ me- I'm not gonna tell anyone, I swear-"

 

Pete rolled his eyes, leaning his head back with a heavy groan. "Gods- Patrick, just stop with the-"

 

Okay apparently Pete was more aware than he'd assumed.

 

Pete pulled Patrick down, and the younger man obliged with a sigh, resting his ear on golden collarbones. Patrick chewed at his lip, and it wasn't long before he chirped up again, cautious and high. "Pete?"

 

Pete sighed. _Deeply_. "Yeah?"

 

Patrick shifted to glance up at Pete, keeping his eyes wide and pitiful. "Tell me, Pete." Pete sighed, rolling his eyes already, but Patrick wasn't stupid; He'd made a backup plan, just in case the first hadn't worked.

 

Patrick kept his eyes wide and soft, his mouth parted, his hands pressed on Pete's chest. " _Please_?"

 

Over the past week, he'd just started realizing how far please could get him with Pete; Coupled with the right tone, the right movements, and Pete would, figuratively, surrender.

Eyelids fluttered over brown eyes, and Pete tipped his head back again, keeping still as Patrick sat up.

 

"They paid me, Patrick."

 

"No." Patrick cocked and shook his head, making sure to not let Pete slip away from the conversation this time. His deflecting days were over. "You wouldn't do that- you believe in the Gods too much-"

 

" _The_ Gods?"

 

Looking up, Pete furrowed his brow gently, and the ghost of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "Not, ' _Your_ ' Gods?"

Patrick squinted. "Changing the subject isn't gonna work this time, motherfucker- I'm onto you." Pete chuckled, squeezed his hands into Patrick's hips, and rolled his own, keeping his still dark eyes on blue ones. "I'm aware."

 

It only took silence and a pleading look from Patrick, and Pete was cracking just that little bit more.

 

The words came with a groan, and his tries at distraction, aka, feathering over Patrick's sides and making him shudder, were _not_ working. Not even a little bit. Not at all.

Fuck, fine- they were having _an effect_ , but Patrick was gonna overcome; Answers were more important than his dick right now.

 

"I- I needed money for the boats, alright?" Patrick shook his head; That wasn't good enough of an answer. "So you, betrayed the Gods-"

 

"I didn't betray-"

 

"For money?" Patrick squinted, keeping his voice slow. "To make _more_ boats, to steal _more_ money?" He quirked an eyebrow. "For greed, essentially?" Patrick leant over, bringing the tip of his nose over to brush Pete's. "I don't buy it."

 

Pete exhaled quietly and trailed a firm, rough hand over Patrick's spine, huffing bemusedly at the goosebumps that followed it.

His free hand cupped Patrick's cheek, but try as he might to get Patrick to let up- Patrick was not gonna bend.

 

"…Patrick." Pete's free hand curled around the back of his neck, forcing a steady stare between them. "If I tell you-"

 

Yes- this was it, he was gonna- okay, shit, Patrick needed to chill out; He couldn't be too excitable here, he needed to prove he was mature, that he could keep a secret.

 

"You can't tell anyone. I mean it. No one."

 

Patrick stared into the dark, firm eyes, and nodded, bringing a hand to curl around the back of Pete's, moving it to his cheek rather than his nape. He pressed into it, smiling gently and praying Pete was finding this endearing, not childish.

Apparently it was the former, and soon enough, Pete had sat up, still holding Patrick in his lap as he stared him down.

 

"They paid me. A lot."

 

Patrick placed his arms over Pete's shoulders, but moved a hand back to card through dark hair and to thumb over shaved sides. "How much is a lot?"

Pete's jaw shifted, but through a stuttered blink, he kept his nerve. "A thousand silver pounds for every church." Patrick gaped.

 

A thousand?

 

In silver?

 

For every church- the priests were building at least _six_ \- Jesus Christ, no wonder Pete had agreed to-

 

Wait.

 

Patrick squinted, shaking his head with a light scoff. "So what, a few thousand silver is your price? You'd just-"

"Just because I let them build," Pete ducked his head, and started pressing open, wet kisses against Patrick's jaw bone, murmuring the words against Patrick's cheek. "Doesn't mean they're gonna stay."

Patrick, who had been avidly biting his lip at Pete's mouth trailing down over his neck, shook himself alert with a shudder. Hands bracing on Pete's shoulders, he pushed the older man back to look at him, and to give his severely abused neck a break.

 

"What do you mean- Pete, they're not gonna stay?"

 

Pete tensed for a moment, but a wide-eyed look from Patrick, and he was talking again, mouth, tongue and teeth working at Patrick's shoulder. "Did you really think-" He punctured the words with a bite. "I would let Christians convert my people?"

Patrick shuddered and fluttered his eyelids as Pete licked a stripe along his neck. He squeezed his eyes, shook his head, and tried gripping at Pete's shoulders again. "Wait- you-" He furrowed his brow at Pete, hands shifting on his shoulders.

 

Pete's hands jumped to his cheeks, holding his head steady and keeping their eyes locked. "The churches won't stay, Patrick." He tilted his head and leant forwards, kissing Patrick hard and slow. Fuck. Patrick was a weak man.

Soon enough, Pete was rolling his hips with Patrick's again, both of them gasping and grunting; and it didn't take long before Patrick was on his back again.

 

"They won't stay." Pete stared at him seriously. "They won't."

 

And for some, dumb reason-

 

Patrick believed him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everyone moved around the boats in perfect synergy. Everyone knew what, how, and when to do what they needed to do.

 

Well, everyone except for Patrick.

 

Patrick was still mostly useless when it came to boats, but like, slotting the shields into place was helpful, right? Okay, maybe not, but-

 

"Uh…Tyler?"

 

At Brendon's lilted question, Patrick glanced over his shoulder.

 

Tyler was bruised, bitten, and disheveled, but the weirdest part about it was definitely the guy trailing behind him.

His hair was dark, so were his eyes- that were squinted at the sunlight. There was a long, bright series of drawings on one of his arms; Fuck, Patrick understood they were important, but they looked so fucking painful.

The other man looked pretty happy, in less of a state of disrepair, and he kept silent as Tyler pulled him along into the boat.

 

Through glances at each other, Pete tried first. "Okay, any explanations?" Tyler shrugged, but kept his face plain as everyone stuttered back to work. "Josh, some Danish guy's slave, and I'm stealing him. Any problems?"

Pete only nodded. Slowly. And shrugged back, "Any specific Danish guy? Not like, the king, or anything?"

"That doesn't matter," Tyler glanced over at Josh, who had taken to staring over the edge at the water. Tyler raised his brow back at Pete. "What matters is he's passed out right now."

Patrick couldn't really help the confusion on his face, but as Pete glanced back at him, he only chuckled and finally grinned.

 

"So…if we don't want said Danish guy coming after us…?"

 

Tyler shrugged again, but quickly clapped Pete on the shoulder, before moving back over to the mast.

 

"We should probably hurry up."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"You have hmm…exactly, _zero_ room to complain."

Pete scoffed, but Patrick could hear the grin behind it, and he could almost see it, even through the thick darkness.

Nighttime at sea, no torches, sconces or campfires to block the stars…or to keep you warm. But, while Patrick was freezing so hard he was pretty sure he'd start losing fingers in a minute, he had to admit, the view was worth it.

The boat was drifting at this point, the wind thankfully edging it in the right direction; They'd be rowing again tomorrow, but for now, most everyone was asleep, curled up in bed rolls, blankets, and under benches.

 

Pete wasn't great at sleeping out at sea, however and apparently, and while Patrick had been so tired he could've fallen asleep while walking, the lights gracing the sky were more than enough motivation to stay awake.

 

"I didn't steal you," Pete shifted, leaning his spine against the mast, and making room as Patrick propped his head against his shoulder. "I…rented- no, that's not the right word-"

 

"You bought me, pretty sure."

 

"…Bought is a _strong_ word."

 

Patrick chuckled and looked up at Pete, trying to finding him, even through the dim, teal light the sky was giving off. "What's the definition of buying something?"

Pete sighed, but his smile was broad and hard to get rid of. "Exchanging money for a good or service-"

"Thank you and exactly." Patrick huffed bemusedly and let his head drop back down, while his eyes raised towards the sky.

 

It was like that night on the beach, only, _more_.

The colours were brighter, there were no clouds or mountains to block them, and the stars were everywhere and glowing.

 

"...At least I didn't steal you."

 

Patrick snorted a laugh, tipping his head further onto Pete's shoulder, and rubbing his cheek against it. "Sure, if that makes it better for you, go ahead."

Pete chuckled back, jerking his shoulder lightly. "Maybe it does." He fell silent pretty quickly, but as always, silence never lasted with Pete.

 

 

"Patrick?"

 

"Mm?"

 

"…Your…Your father was a king- is, a king, right?"

Patrick nodded softly, but kept his eyes on the sky. His father, his home- or, old home; He hadn't really, thought about it in _so long_ -

 

"So, why didn't he protect you?"

 

Patrick's brow dropped, "What do you mean?" Pete shrugged lightly again, hissing apologetically as he disturbed Patrick for a moment. "I mean, if he's a king, he must've had armies."

 

"…Yeah, of course he had armies."

 

"And soldiers, and guards, and weapons, and-"

 

"Yeah, Pete- he had all that, but-"

 

Pete shifted to stare at Patrick, brow furrowed and eyes curious. "So, why didn't he stop us? Why did he, just, let us take you?"

Patrick stared for a moment, mouth parted and eyes wide. He shook his head slowly. "They- We were, _terrified_ , of you."

Pete's brow raised, his head tilted. " _Why_?"

 

Why?

 

Motherfucker- _Why_?

 

Patrick leaned back to stare, complete bewilderment crossing every inch of him. "Pete- you, you guys killed monks. On Lindisfarne- that's holy ground, and- and- you're, well, they thought you were demons. You're scary, and, pagans, and, murderers- shit, of course people are scared-"

 

"I'm scary? Wow, _a demon_? That's kinda cool- you guys are creative-" Pete was somewhere between a chuckle and a grin, but Patrick only rolled his eyes with a smile, before letting his head back down on his shoulder. "You know what I mean." He exhaled quietly, and wrapped his hands around Pete's arm. "You are. To them."

 

Pete smiled, wrapping an arm around Patrick's shoulders. "Am I to you?" Patrick huffed, but couldn't help his small smile as he curled into Pete further. "You were. At first."

Patrick leaned upwards, and pressed a soft kiss to Pete's cheek. "And then I figured out you were just a goofball." Pete scrunched his face up, trying faux annoyance that quickly dissolved into a beam. "Not so scary anymore?"

 

Patrick shook his head, and leant it back down on Pete's shoulder.

 

 

"Not so scary anymore."

 

 


	11. Pay Your Respects

 

"Are you sure you're gonna be okay?"

 

Patrick tried a smile, but Pete only nodded with a light shrug, that same firm blankness back on his face, as they stood in the shadow of churches topped with crosses.

It'd been weird enough at first, when the buildings had been skeletons, but now that they were complete and towering, it was infinitely worse.

  
Truthfully, Patrick had been expecting _some_ kind of intervention, but, apart from occasional glares at priests, nothing had really happened; Even Pete had kept quiet, and the churches remained, one day before the services were due to start.

Patrick didn't think they'd hook many people, but exposure could do a lot, and Patrick was…conflicted, to say the least.

 

Pete glanced back over his shoulder, once again, being stared down by the three who actually seemed most bothered about it all; Josh was tagging along at Tyler's side, seeing as they were practically joined at the hip. And, while Patrick had been kept out at first, apparently _Josh's_ language barrier was enough to let him into meetings. Great.

His eyes drifted back towards Patrick, and just after, his mouth quirked into a smile. "Aren't you coming with me?"

 

Uh.

 

No?

 

Patrick would rather go sit through a church service than get yelled at?

 

Patrick's brow furrowed, and coupled with an involuntary noise of protest as Pete tugged him along by the arm. He leant down across the short distance between them, "I need someone on my side."

 

Well- fuck, okay, that made sense.

  
Patrick jerked his arm away gently and rolled his eyes, despite the low smile on his face. "And, why's that have to be me?"

Pete gave him one, quirked stare, and it was enough for Patrick to concede.

Joe and Andy both leant against one of the walls, arms crossed and eyes dark as they started out at the nearest church, that towered over the Seer's house.

Two blue gazes drifted to them both, and Patrick sighed, trying to steel himself for the barrage of insults. Pete was only rolling his eyes, and smirking as he walked through the doors, pretty much ignoring it when the other two followed.

Patrick glanced back over his shoulder.

They didn't look happy.

 

Goddammit, one of these days, he was gonna die, and it was all gonna be Pete's fault.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Thanks for finally showing up."  


Brendon shrugged and pouted at Pete, "What? I'm not that late." But Dallon only rolled his eyes and pulled him forwards by the arm. "Sorry, he got preoccupied."

Patrick could just about guess with _what_ , but he bit his tongue as Pete tried to calm the storm before it started.

 

"Alright," Pete straightened his back, glancing between the others. "before you all start yelling at me-"

"It's deserved." Were Joe's only low words, but Pete rolled his eyes and spat out another word. " _Anyway_ -"

He sighed, shoulders showing just how worried he really was behind the facade. "I wanted to give you a heads up."

 

"Oh, like heads up you _didn't_ give us, when you brought the Christians over in the first place?" Andy let his words flood with sarcasm as he cocked his head at Pete, but the latter only sighed again, more heavily this time. "Will you all just shut up?"

 

They obliged, but the glares, crossed arms and scowls were worse than any mocking words. At least, they were to Patrick; Pete however, stood up straight, raised his chin, and kept firm.

 

"Tomorrow, I'm going to summon the priests."

 

The grumbles started up in an instant, but Pete squinted, and they fell silent. "And I need you all to go along with what I do, alright?"

 

"No- look, if you're gonna make us-"  
  
Pete inhaled. "Will you." Pete exhaled. "Shut up."

 

"No, y'know what- no-"  
"You betraying us all, and honestly- we've been too fucking lenient-"

"I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed."

"You know _exactly_ what you're doing here, you made your choice-"

 

"The Christians aren't gonna stay."

 

There was silence, and then, everyone turned to Patrick.

Tyler tried first, spitting words through a furrowed brow and a squint. "What are you talking about?"

Patrick kept his face blank, but shook his head noncommittally as his eyes drifted over to Pete, and the older man seemed to get the message.

Brown eyes moved between the others steadily, holding on in long gazes that scanned and prodded at them. "It's true." He stifled an exhale, and his voice dropped lower. "They're not."

 

The silence was heavy, and it felt like an eternity before Dallon tried first. "…Well, how are you gonna get rid of them?"

Pete said nothing, and the silence was eerie as he gave each one of them a long stare. "I need you to listen to me tomorrow. I need you to do what I say." He was different, Patrick could feel it; Poised firmly, but lithely, and all while exuding nothing but authority. This was something Patrick had never seen before, but by the lowered heads and dropped shoulders from the others, he assumed they had.

 

"It will be for the best." Pete straightened up again, finally staring out over the hall, eyes scanning over the ghosts of priests who weren't there yet. "Everything will be for the best."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"What are you gonna do to them, Pete?"

 

The great hall was quiet now, not to mention cold, and empty. The torches even flickered a little lower, but the lack of people milling around didn't seem to bother Pete in the slightest.

Instead, the man kept staring at the map that lay over the table top; It was large, and no doubt painstakingly made, bright colours and dark ink, all layered together to show off the country.

 

But even that wasn't enough to draw Patrick's attention away from the man.

 

With a soft look, he slid a hand onto Pete's shoulder, squeezing it lightly as he stepped close. "You can tell me."

Pete's jaw bristled under his skin, but soon enough, brown eyes were shifting towards blue. "Do any of them like the priests? Do you know?"

 

'Like'?

 

What the hell did he mean by 'like'?

 

Patrick stifled his look of confusion and only cocked his head gently, keeping his eyes wide and reassuring. "I don't- what do you mean by like?

 

Pete's stare became long and distant for mere seconds, but he was quickly looking back down at the map, seemingly in a way to distract himself.  
He said nothing else, but somehow, things snapped into place. Patrick nodded deeply, eyes screwing shut at his own stupidity. "Brendon uh- he likes one of the monks."

 

Pete froze under Patrick's hand. He stayed like that for what felt like minutes, but Patrick didn't let go or move away; Something was bothering Pete here, and if Patrick was gonna help him, he needed to find out what it was.

The hand on his shoulder drifted up towards his hair, but the second fingers slid into the strands, Pete jerked up straight. "Tell Brendon to hide him." He looked over to Patrick, eyes oddly soft for his words. "For two days. At least."

 

Patrick gave a stuttered nod, "Uh- I- Okay, okay." He turned on his heel, moving to start away before-

 

He looked back at Pete.

 

Patrick shifted back over to him, grabbed his jaw and kissed him, hard and fast and loving. He pulled back, nose inches apart as he smiled softly and dragged a thumb over one of Pete's cheekbone. "It's gonna be okay."

Despite himself, Pete's lips twitched into a smile, and his eyes flooded with gratefulness. He leaned forwards, pecking a sweet kiss on Patrick's mouth. "I hope you're right."

 

"I am." Patrick grinned, backing away. "I always am." The words were half a giggle as he turned away, Pete's chuckle still in his ears. He moved around the table, intent on pacing by the fire, and towards the front doors.

 

Warn Brendon. Hide the priest. He could do that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Act natural."

 

"What- I _always_ act natural, Patrick, don't-"

 

Patrick quirked an eyebrow, but quickly moved his stare back towards the church.  
The wooden pews, the crosses, the carved saints; So much in so little time, it was impressive, to say the least.

While it felt at home to Patrick, the place, the amount of priests walking around, the statues of people who looked really sad/judgy, Brendon wasn't as chilled out.

His eyes were the size of the moon as he moved beside Patrick, glancing around, eyes darting wildly, and shoulders lax. "This is… _so_ weird."  
  
Patrick tutted and elbowed him in the ribs sharply. "Didn't I say 'act natural'?" Brendon made an indignant noise, shrugging sharply. "I _am_ acting natural."

 

"Just- shut up and find the guy, alright? It's for your sake." Brendon huffed at Patrick, "My sake? I'm not the one Pete's gonna-"

  
"Shut it." Patrick hissed, eyes darting around at a few of the nearer priests. "Let's just- Brendon." He turned fully, eyes focusing and narrowing. "Find him."

 

 

It took a few moments of awkward pacing, nervous glances, and searching squinting, before-

 

"There."

 

The priest, mop of brown hair, skinny, and sitting at the front pews, hand tight around his crucifix, and head bowed in prayer.

Brendon and Patrick watched him, eyes narrowed carefully. "So," Patrick quirked an eyebrow. "How d'you wanna do this?"

 

"I mean…we could just kidnap him."

 

"Brendon."

 

"What? Kidnapping is a lot easier than you'd think. And Pete said-"

 

"Brendon."

 

"But-"

 

"We're not kidnapping the priest, Brendon."

 

"…Fine." Brendon sighed. "But- shit, do you have any better ideas?" Patrick scoffed, rolling his eyes deeply. "Of course I-" His brow furrowed, "I- I mean, yeah, I…."

Of course he had ideas, they could convince the priest to- or, maybe they could tell him that...no, that wouldn't really...work. Oh, wait- maybe they- no, shit, that one wouldn't work either.

 

Shit.

 

Patrick didn't have any ideas.

 

Or rather, Patrick didn't have any better ideas than 'kidnapping'.

 

Brendon's grin was telling. "My plan it is, then." Patrick sighed deeply, fuck, he couldn't believe he was agreeing to this. "Fuck-"

"Okay, look." Brendon turned to him, eyes wide and pressing. "You tell him that, I dunno…Wait!" Brown eyes brightened, and he clicked his fingers, before pointing at Patrick decidedly. "Go tell him your son's dying, and- you want him to die a Christian-"

 

"What? Brendon, no-"

 

"Then take him to my house, and we'll lock him in the-"

 

"Brendon-"

  
"'Kay good luck, Patrick, love ya buddy." Brendon grabbed Patrick by the shoulder, moving to push him towards the priest, but Patrick dug his heels in and shoved back. "Brendon," He hissed venomously.

 

"I am not telling that priest, that my 'son' is 'dying'. We are not kidnapping him. We are not lying to him."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"My son is dying, and I want him to die Christian so he can go to Heaven."

 

Somehow, the priest's eyes widened at the obvious lie.

 

The priest's name was Ryan- Patrick had figured that out over a brief, five minute conversation; Y'know, just to lead up to the 'Hey, my son is dying' bombshell. Regardless, a nice, normal name, for a nice, normal priest. Who he and Brendon were trying to kidnap. God fucking dammit.

 

"That's- that's terrible, my- God, my condolences."

 

Fuck, this guy was _decent_ , Patrick felt like shit already. Ryan's eyes dropped a little, and his fingers curled around the sides of his bible. "But, well, I uh- I see how that uh, that warrants a priest. But uh- I should probably get father-"

 

"My son's like- about to die, you'll do, c'mon." Patrick grabbed the priest by the arm, pretty much pulling him outside and far away from the church.

Thankfully, Brendon lived by the coast, so there would be absolutely zero awkward stumbling through the forest; Patrick was decent at walking through it now, but it wasn't like he _enjoyed_ it.

 

 

 

 

Brendon's house wasn't huge, wasn't tiny either- but, just like the others, it was carved wood, thatched roof, and housed everything from shields to rugs to swords, which lay around casually, despite their…murdery nature.

They pushed through the door, Patrick leading the priest inside, who tried a timid question that, admittedly, put Patrick on the fucking spot. And when Patrick got put on the spot, he got stupid.

 

"So uh…what's your son's name?"

 

Patrick glanced around the room, eyes wide as he scanned for Brendon. What the fuck, he said he'd be here- oh shit, the question- son's name, shit, uh-

 

"Dog."

 

Ryan's brow raised, and his mouth parted in a look of pure confusion. "Dog…? You-You named your son, Dog?"

Fuck, Brendon- where the hell was he- "Uh- yeah, my wife was kind of a bitch, so uh- she hated our kid, but uh- it's like a pun, too? 'Cause, bitch, and Dog- yeah, okay-" Patrick ignored Ryan's blank looks of confusion and paced around carefully, craning his neck to look for Brendon.

 

"…I- I understand it may be a little sensitive, but uh…what, exactly, is Dog, dying of?"

 

"Uh- hit him, with... _a sword_."

 

Ryan made a strangled sound of horror, "You- hit your son with _a sword_?" Fuck- Brendon, where the hell was he- "Uh, yeah, he was being loud, broke a vase, _shit_ -"

 

"I…don't-"

 

The muffled yelp was enough to make Patrick snap his head around to the sound, only to find- " _Brendon_?"

  
Brendon was struggling with Ryan, a sack over his head, and ropes clumsily tethered around him as he dragged the priest over to the cupboard, hidden at the side of the room.

 

Patrick sighed heavily, eyes rolling into the back of his skull, but Brendon only grinned up at him as he shoved Ryan into the cupboard with no finesse. He locked the door shut, and propped a chair under the handle, before turning to Patrick, hands on his hips and triumphant. "See? Told ya it would work."

  
Patrick winced a little at the muffled screams for help behind the door, but despite himself, he sighed and shrugged at Brendon. "I guess you were right."

Brendon made a happy, proud noise, glancing back at the cupboard for a mere second, before he snapped back towards Patrick. "Dude. You are a terrible liar."

 

"… _Thanks_ -"

 

"No, like- I mean, _really_ terrible. Like, _awful_."

 

"Yes, thank you Brendon-"

 

"Your son 'Dog'? Who you, 'hit with a sword'? Holy shit, who the fuck taught you how to-"

 

Patrick ended the conversation with a laboured sigh, moving towards the front door as Brendon's stifled laughter rang in his ears, before-

 

"Wait- Patrick?"

 

Patrick sighed, but obliged, glancing back over his shoulder with a light glare. "What?"  
Brendon moved towards him, eyes still shifting around any time Ryan was particularly loud. "What…What do you think Pete's gonna do?"

  
With a light shrug, and with a shake of his head, Patrick tried a sympathetic smile. "I don't know, Brendon."

Brendon nodded, but there was something nervous in his eyes, and Patrick could only clap a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "But, I do know, that…he's gonna fix it."

 

Brendon's eyes darted back upwards. "You think so?"

 

Patrick nodded again, letting his smile grow broader across his face. "I know so." It only took a few seconds before a similar smile- albeit, a little smaller, was all over Brendon's face, and Patrick moved to leave again, when Ryan tried a particularly strong kick at the door, jilting the chair under the handle.

 

"Brendon?"

 

Glancing away from the door, Brendon turned to Patrick with wide eyes, still holding residue of something between nerves and fear. "Uh huh?"

 

" _Don't_ forget to feed him."

 

Brendon tried a wide, toothy, but awkward grin. "I'll uh…I'll try, not to?" Patrick blinked. _Slowly_.

 

" _Brendon_."

 

"I will feed the priest."

 

Turning towards the door again, Patrick wrapped a hand around the handle, letting his eyelids flutter before trying again. "… _Good luck_."

 

"Thanks dude!"  


 

It'd been more aimed at Ryan, truthfully, but Patrick let it slide, and he left Brendon's house with Ryan's protests still echoing through his ears.

He stopped in his tracks half the way home, suddenly hit hard by his bout of fucking stupidity. Patrick walked home the rest of the way with fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "Dog, fucking- vase, sword, oh my g- so fucking stupid-"  
  
  
  
"Hey Patrick?" Pete squinted at him from over at the small port beside his house, head tilted curiously. "How'd it go?"

Patrick didn't even spare him a look. He only power walked towards the house, fingers still pinching his bridge, and woefully, Pete _chuckled_.

 

 

"That bad?"

 

Patrick sighed.

 

"Worse."

 

 

 


	12. Best Ink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wew. It's me. Ya boi. Who doesn't upload for like two days and comes back with this, I'm so sorry.

 

Blood was hard to wash off.

 

No matter how long Patrick had scrubbed at his hands with water, soap, dry hay- all of it had done next to nothing. No matter how long he'd doused himself with water, scrubbed his skin red and raw, he still reeked of salt and iron; Everything from his wrists to his fingers was tinged red, and every inch of his skin there smelt like old steel.

Patrick could only sigh and ignore them as he glanced up at the house; Wood, carvings, thatch. The same as always, foreign yet familiar.

The sky was dark behind the jutting wood, inky and glittering with stars and glowing with blue lights. It was cold, Patrick's breath steamed in the air, and a constant chill attacked Patrick's very bones.

It was tiring, somehow. He was hardly ever just warm, or comfortable. Something was always scratchy, something was always cold, something was always different. And while it exhausted Patrick in a way, on the other hand, he was pretty sure he would've died of boredom in Kent.

Sure, he might have been placated with a wife, a few kids, and a fuckhuge library to hide from aforementioned wife and kids in, but, would he have been happy?

 

Happiness. It was something Patrick wasn't sure he'd ever really had bef- Shit. Was he even happy now, though? Honestly, Patrick hadn't had more than three good minutes to sit down and figure it out; It'd been a flurry of doing _stuff_. Seriously, Patrick had never done this much stuff before.

 

Today had really taken the cake, however.

 

Something Patrick had never expected to do, was kill a person.

He understood the world was dog eat dog, and that people had to fight for their survival, but, when he'd been young, he was always sure it would be left to the soldiers, the sell swords, the guards, the armies, the masters-at-arms. Not him.

Of course, he'd been expected to learn how to handle a sword, just in case things ever got out of hand, or for tourneys and all that bullshit; That had always been Kevin's thing though, not Patrick's…But, despite it all, Patrick had never expected to have blood on his hands.

Then again, everything Patrick had ever expected out of his life had been turned on its head, ever since the day Pete had strode in through the great hall's doors.

 

He'd killed someone. And he wasn't sure if he'd ever forget it.

 

He could still see the axe in his hand, if he moved his eyes too quickly. It was like a ghost of what had happened, and Patrick really fucking hoped it would go away at some point.

The smell was stuck in his nostrils too, clinging to his clothes, to his skin, to his hair- fuck, Patrick could _feel_ it all over him. It was sickly, and weirdly sweet, but the salt and iron of the red tinge all over him cut through it sharply.

His ears were still ringing, his heart was still racing, and his hands were still shaking. That, wasn't something he'd ever really wanted to do, but, what frightened Patrick the most, was how little it bothered him.

 

He'd been standing there. In the middle of the great hall, one of the higher priests on his knees in front of him. His hands had been tied, his arms had been spread, and he'd been pleading; For God, for his mother, for mercy, it'd all blurred over for Patrick.

 

Pete had done it first. He'd demonstrated, Patrick supposed.

 

It was old, an execution reserved for those who had trespassed against the Gods themselves, but the years hadn't worn it blunt at all; Brutal was the only word that came to mind. Brutal, and bloody, and sadistic, and- Patrick kept telling himself, kept reprimanding himself, kept shunning the practise, but it hadn't bothered him.

His stomach hadn't swirled, his hands hadn't trembled, his heart had been steady. Split open a back, split open a spine, watch the rib cages spring apart, tear lungs out, listen to screams- it'd all blurred into one for Patrick. One long, bloody, gruesome hour, an hour of watching a man die with his lungs propped on his shoulders.

 

He'd turned, axe loose in his hand and face sprinkled with blood, and he'd seen the others. Some eyes were blank, but there were still flickers of everything from admiration, to disdain, to pride. Pride. Pete had looked proud.

And while that made Patrick happier than it should've, the _respect_ in those brown eyes was what really felt like _winning_.

 

Sure, watching the churches burn, seeing the bodies swing from trees, and smelling the smoke heavy in the air had all been its own reward- a reward Patrick hadn't ever known he'd needed, Pete _respected_ him.

He wasn't sure if he had before, but Patrick couldn't blame him there. He'd been petulant at first, childish, and cowardly, and weak. Patrick wasn't perfect now, but, he felt better; Despite every lesson that screamed at him, that told him it was all wrong, that he should be pleading for forgiveness for murdering a priest, for watching a church burn, for walking over the rubble of destroyed saint statues, Patrick couldn't chase the satisfaction away.

 

Patrick pushed the front doors open quietly, taking a moment to glance around inside through the gap before fully stepping through. The door behind him closed with a thud.

The fire was dying, the logs were more ember than wood at this point, but there was still enough warmth to stop Patrick shivering, if only for a few seconds.

 

Dog was curled by the fire pit, and he only spared a whine and a glance upwards as Patrick stepped past.

The bed was empty when he finally pushed into the bedroom, but Patrick ignored the tinge of disappointment as he curled up on his side, burying his face in a pillow and letting himself sigh.

 

The churches were gone, the priests were dead, the Christians were no more, and Patrick finally understood why Pete had suggested they…'hide', Ryan.  
It would be a while before they could actually release him, and even then, the sight of six smoky piles of burnt wood might not be the greatest motivation to join them.

But, with time, Ryan would learn; He'd learn the way Patrick had. From language, to sword, to religion, to generally dealing with the amount of sacrifices they went through- Ryan would learn. Just like Patrick had. Everyone learnt, eventually.

 

Patrick balled his hands into fists and clenched his eyes shut. Fuck, his fingers were shaking; He hated it, shit- not being in control of himself was just-

 

"Patrick?"

 

Somehow, he didn't want to look up from the pillow. Maybe Pete had changed his mind about how much respect he owed, maybe he'd suddenly sneer at Patrick for what he did, maybe-

Pete's hand threaded through his hair, stroking at it carefully and gingerly, as though he was a skittish cat or something. Patrick's teeth grit together, and in one harsh move, he flipped over and pulled the older man down.

Arm around his waist, face in his shoulder, and Patrick sighed as his hands calmed from trembling. Maybe having this amount of dependency on someone was wrong, maybe it wasn't healthy; Maybe Patrick needed to step up and live by himself, to finally grow the hell up, cross that final hurdle he'd never really paid any mind to.

 

But on the other hand, it wasn't like Pete was going anywhere.

 

He raised his eyes from Pete's shoulder, letting them dart over his face instead; Pete looked stuck somewhere between amused and careful.

A darker hand was in his hair again, and Pete was smiling softly for what felt like years; He could be miraculously stone-faced when the situation called for it.

 

"Are you okay?"

 

Was he okay? Patrick wasn't sure anymore. Was sadistically torture-murdering someone okay? No, probably not, but Patrick's hands had stopped shaking, so-

 

"Yeah, I'm fine."

 

Pete only hummed noncommittally, before tugging Patrick back towards him and lacing arms around him.

Patrick sighed as Pete pecked the crown of his head, and he finally shut his eyes when Pete tangled their legs together. His thumb was tracing patterns just about the crook of his neck, and in an exhausted daze, Patrick made a try to figure out what the drawings were- until Pete kissed his forehead again.

"It's not…I, had a hard time, the first time too- I just-" Pete held back a sigh, but Patrick could hear it in his chest.

 

"Go to sleep. It'll be better in the morning."

 

Patrick grunted, butting his head into Pete's chest sleepily. "Better fucking be."

 

Something that remotely sounded like 'Just sleep' were the last thing Patrick heard before everything went distant and dark, and nothing about axes, swords, or ribs haunted him that night.

 

Thankfully.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Why did I agree to this?"

  
  
Pete only snorted a laugh, pushing Patrick's head to the side again and leaving his neck stretched and exposed. "Because you were half asleep."

 

Patrick groaned, assaulting people with questions and offers should've been illegal until after noon, Patrick couldn't fucking-

  
After what Patrick had…done, Pete had been insistent about marking him with one of those dark things they called tattoos. And of course, Patrick had refused, because Patrick was a sane human being who didn't want needles piercing ashes into his skin.

 

Pete however, was the craftiest motherfucker he'd ever met.

 

Seriously.

 

He'd worn Patrick out with the question the entire bedridden, sleepy morning, and then, he'd gotten Patrick used to saying 'yes', by offering bullshit he couldn't very well refuse.

And while Patrick had a sneaking suspicion this was a try at distracting him from remorse and woes, he was pretty sure more pain wasn't the way to go about it. He'd never fucking understand Pete.

Pete's hand was pressing against the side of his face, holding him still and steady. "Shit-"

 

"Patrick, just chill out-"

 

"No, no- I will not chill out, 'cause this is gonna fucking hurt-"

 

"I haven't even started, you-"

 

"It's needles. In my skin. It's not gonna be-"

 

"Patrick." Pete craned his neck, cocking his head at Patrick while keeping his eyes wide and pressing. A slow smile tugged at the corners of his lips, "Don't think about it-"

The prick in his neck was sharp, and Patrick could feel his fucking skin dragging, fucking- "THAT FUCKING-"

 

"Shush."

 

Patrick's nose wrinkled indignantly as he tried to growl out another protest, but before he knew it, Pete had pulled him back and steadfast. Locked in arms, and with a small needle stabbing- shit, that was probably ash, god fucking- into his neck again and again, Patrick could only squeeze his eyes shut and wait for it to be over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It felt like hours, but it was probably minutes. Patrick was still wincing and flinched at every pinprick, and at each one, Pete sighed heavily. Oh, yeah, this must've been so fucking hard for _Pete_.

It was totally easy and awesome from Patrick, yeah haha, needles didn't fucking hurt at all-

 

"It's done." Pete's thumb was stroking over the aching part of his neck, but it was quickly replaced by a soft peck that made him wince as the _holes_ …ugh, thrummed painfully with his heartbeat.

 

"See? Wasn't that bad- you've had worse."

 

Patrick's hand leapt to his neck, and he took a good moment to crane his head back and glare at Pete- ignoring the sting in his neck as he did so.  
  
He kept the glare up as he moved back down to his side of he mattress, as well as keeping his hand glued to his neck. Patrick burrowed back into blankets, but poked his nose and eyes forth just to glower at Pete- who was still giggling silently as he tossed away a bloody needle. Ugh. Patrick didn't even want to think about it, it hadn't fucking kicked in yet.

 

As Pete lay down next to him again, goofy grin still broad and in place, Patrick sneered and fired a well placed kick into a shin.  
Pete- who had a ridiculously high pain tolerance, as Patrick had quickly found out, only spluttered into a laugh, tipping his head back and staring at Patrick through crinkled eyes.

 

"You're an asshole- what did you fucking do to me?"

 

Pete only clicked his tongue, and reached out to pry Patrick's fingers away from his neck. Pete's hands were stained dark red, just like his own. A sobering reminder, he supposed; He couldn't ignore what he'd-

"Well…" He tilted his head down at the pattern Patrick couldn't fucking see mother- Inhale, exhale. Patrick had to calm down. It was done now, and- as far as Patrick had gathered so far, it was a rite of passage kind of thing, if anything, he should be super honoured right now.

 

And yet.

 

As he looked at Pete's stupid, amused, dumb fucking- _face_.

 

All he wanted to do was _punch_.

 

Really hard.

 

"It'll heal soon." Pete grinned and dropped his hand, letting Patrick's fingers curl around it protectively once more. The smug beam remained as Pete "And I'll tell you what it is then."

Patrick squinted, taking his time to lean up and watch Pete through slits of eyes. "You didn't write your fucking name on me, right?"

 

Pete grinned.

 

Fuck.

 

"You did _not_."

 

Pete started laughing- oh no, mother-

 

"PETE, I SWEAR TO EVERY FUCKING GOD-"

 

The moment Patrick's arm drew back, Pete's hand shot out to restrain his wrist, all as he tried to regain his breath through frantic laughter that left him breathless and wheezing. Patrick glared as Pete came to, finally sitting up to shake his head at Patrick. "Just kidding- oh g- don't punch me-"

 

"Pete-"

 

"It's just a rune, it's just a- I promise- just-" Pete could hardly speak through stifled laughter, and after enduring close to three minutes, Patrick finally fell to his side of the bed in a huff again.

 

" _You're an asshole_."

 

"Patrick- oh my g- it's-"

  
"By the way- I'm not fucking training today."

 

Pete could only heave for breath, still plagued by laughter that had him, and by extension, the bed shaking.

 

"I'm not getting out of this bed for ten years."

 

Through a final shaky exhale, Pete crept up behind him and snaked an arm around his waist. God fucking damn it. Patrick wasn't mad enough to turn it down.  
He kicked himself for letting Pete bury his face in his hair, but by the pecks on his cheek, he was losing conviction to stay mad. "Ten years, huh?"

"Uh huh." Patrick sniffed, wincing at the sting in his neck as he spoke. "I'll make it twenty if you keep talking."

Pete only hummed, pressing a kiss to the shell of his ear- ohfuck Pete knew his sweet spots too fucking well, this was illegal and inhumane- "Twenty years in bed. Doesn't sound that bad."

 

"…I hate you."

 

"Hate you too."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_One, two, three._

 

Patrick sidestepped away from the sword's blow, keeping his eyes trained solely on Pete- who had really been pulling out all the stops to distract him from his shaky remorse, and from the smouldering piles of burnt, ashy church- and from the charred bodies too, he supposed.

 

_Four, five, six._

 

Another swing, but Patrick swiftly blocked it with his own. Pete chuckled lowly as they circled, every step was calculated, careful, and trained; It was something Patrick had never really paid attention to before, but turns out, it was pretty damn important.  


It also turns out that his little penchant for counting beats, for holding a rhythm, for memorizing simple chords and movements, was actually useful.

As soon as Pete had found out, he'd changed everything about how he taught him; Things were beat based now, he made Patrick count every step, every swing, every breath out. And, he'd only affirmed what Patrick had already assumed: Pete was a _much_ better teacher than Kevin was.

 

"Count it out."

 

Patrick nodded. _Seven, eight, nine_.

He wasn't sure if Pete was letting him win out of twisted pity, that kind of pathetic factor that possessed people to let little kids win at chess. But nonetheless, Patrick seriously had to stifle a grin every time he got a hit in, and he couldn't help but imagine what it'd be like to do this in an actual fight.

 

Practising on what was practically a mountain wasn't super risk free, but a fight was something else altogether. But hey, at least the view was good.

  
Sure, it seemed a little scary, but he'd quickly learnt a little adrenaline could go a long way in keeping you from throwing up when faced with death and/or danger. Which was handy. Seeing as Patrick had a tendency to do that.

Sometimes he tried to imagine it. Maybe it'd be a Frank, or a Saxon- hell, maybe it'd be someone from home; Some poor soldier who definitely hadn't been paid enough to deal with raiders.

Instead of just grazing with a blunt blade, he'd wedge a sharp one in. Instead of fake-slicing a wrist or a neck, he'd do it for real, he'd feel all the bones and veins split under the steel.

It would've been a horrific prospect to him once. It might've made him sick, he might've never thought himself capable.

 

And then he'd split a rib cage open, and had settled lungs on shoulders, all while he'd watched a priest die.

He'd done that. He'd killed someone like that. And he'd felt nothing.

 

Freaky. Worrying. _Concerning_ …but, a pretty liberating feeling, somehow.

 

Fucked up. Yeah. He knew.

 

But, it had, in a way, opened doors for Patrick; There were things he never thought he'd do. Wielding a sword, cutting with an axe, blocking with a shield, firing arrows from a bow… _successfully_.

They were things he'd always been shunned for not being able to do, they were things 'best left to Kevin'.

 

He wondered if Kevin could beat him now.

 

It wasn't like he'd kill his own brother, but curiosity got the best of Patrick sometimes; Hell, his mother had chimed 'Curiosity killed the cat' so many times Patrick's eyes still rolled every time he heard it.

  
He'd been blocking Pete's blows too long, he needed to reciprocate here. Shoulders falling lax and solid, Patrick lurched forwards, keeping his grunts stifled.

It took an open jugular, and a sword too busy trying to swipe across a stomach, for Patrick to win. Blade brushing the throat, and spine twisting enough to put him out of harm's way, and Pete stuttered back.

 

He looked frozen for a moment, brow furrowed and mouth parted, but it only sat there for a second before a beam made of nothing but pride spread over Pete's face.

Brushing an idle hand over his Adam's apple, Pete exhaled sharply with a nod and paced over to the edge of the aforementioned mountain. Patrick still had no idea how Pete was so nonchalant about it, but nonetheless, he followed. Sheepishly.

He dropped the sword and took a seat next to Pete, crossing his legs and refraining from looking down over the edge. _Obviously_.

  
As silence descended and adrenaline faded, all the little aches and pains on Patrick started coming back from the faded place in which they'd been stuck.

The red blade marks that would turn into long bruises on his sides, the teeth marks and bites on his neck and shoulders- courtesy of Pete, and last but not least, the sore pinpricks just above the crook of his neck.

 

Regret.

 

Regret was the _main_ mood going through Patrick right now.

 

Still though, as much as he wanted to whine and complain, nothing would un-stab the ashes into his neck, so he may as well just live with it. But never again. Patrick was _not_ falling for Pete's tricks _ever_ again.

 

His fingertips, that had been getting rougher over his time there, trailed over the most achy parts, and over what Patrick knew were dark, marring lines.

He glanced over at Pete, but hesitated as he parted his mouth to speak.

  
Pete looked peaceful. Like, actually peaceful. Those moments were far and few between; He was usually more entertained by watching Patrick, or by distracting himself with the tiniest details and trinkets. His attention, that was usually spread out and frenzied, was focused.

 

His dark eyes were set forwards, casting over the view, and everything about him was relaxed but focused.

…But, the problem was, Pete was good at feeling eyes on him, and the cover of focus was pretty quickly torn down and shattered.

Brown eyes flicked towards him, and Pete's lips quickly quirked into a smile. Patrick tried a smile back, but the hand on his neck brought him back to the point. The point Patrick had been trying to make for an entire morning now.

 

"So, _now_ , will you tell me what you put on my neck?"

 

Pete chuckled, shaking his head, and just as Patrick readied himself to give up all hope- Pete had shifted towards him.

A hand on his shoulder, and another trailing over the patterns, his smile was broad and easy. "It's a- Vegvisir? I'm not sure what you'd call it-" Patrick's brow dropped; Vegvisir, he'd never heard that before- oh shit, that freaked him out even harder-

"Well, anyway," Pete dropped his hands, but kept his eyes trained on the markings Patrick couldn't see. "It's a compass. You'll never get lost."

 

A compass.

 

A compass. That didn't work. Because it was drawn into skin.

 

Awesome, Pete was _really smart_ , _Patrick hadn't given him enough_ \- No, fuck it.

 

"Pete- how the hell am I supposed to use a compass on my-"

 

Pete was laughing, and that was always a surefire sign Patrick had misunderstood something. He sighed and crossed his arms; It wasn't like it was his fault, their customs were different, and a compass meant something different to him. Goddammit, Pete was always fucking laugh-

 

"It stops you getting lost here." Pete jabbed his finger at Patrick's head, before moving it down to poke over his heart. "And here."

His hand dropped, and Patrick looked over, only finding a soft smile and softer eyes. Fuck. He was hap-

 

"Patrick, can I ask you something serious?"

 

Fuck.

 

That never boded well.

 

Pushing his worries aside, Patrick nodded and shifted to give Pete his full attention, locking blue, gold-ringed eyes onto brown ones.

 

"I'm about to be very cheesy."

 

Patrick scoffed, but his smile was obvious and there.

 

"Try me."

 

Pete didn't flinch, or tense, or look away, he only kept his eyes there, kept them boring into Patrick.

 

"Are you happy?"

 

Was he… _happy_.

 

Patrick dropped his gaze for a moment, squinting at the shaping of the rock under them as he tried to focus his mind just that little bit further. Was he happy?

Well, what did happiness feel like? Patrick had only ever heard it tied to things he didn't really have anymore; Like, a lot of gold, a castle, successful children, a beautiful wife. Patrick had none of that, but, at the same time, who's to say that would make someone happy?

If he had to guess, or wager, he'd assume happiness was just being content, right? No matter where you were, who you were with, how you felt- you were okay, and _good_.

 

His eyes flicked up to Pete again.

 

At the start, all he'd thought was that Pete had taken everything from him. The possibility of a life, his home, his future, his wealth, his status- Pete had stolen it all away, for nothing. And yet, now, Pete had given him more; He'd pretty much replaced everything he'd lost, and had doubled it- no, he'd paid it back ten times over.

But, regardless, Patrick felt okay. Despite the constant, weirdly high amount of bloodshed, the Gods he'd taken up and the one he'd forsaken, and despite the fucking ashes in his neck…Patrick felt okay.

 

He was nodding before he realized he was, but as a tiny smile twitched over Pete, Patrick's nods hardened, and a grin joined them. His voice was almost a whisper, but Pete heard it; The way his eyes lit up were too much of an indication. "I am."

Pete nodded quickly, and his hand quickly moved out to grab Patrick's. Fingers laced together, Pete glanced up and inhaled deeply. "I'm glad you are- but, you- I don't ever want to trap you, if you- if, you get bored one day, or- if you want to go home, I'll let you- I- I just mean-"

 

Pete's eyes dropped for a moment, but they were back on Patrick in a second. "I know I technically bought you-"

Patrick couldn't help his snort of amusement, but Pete only laughed at it. "But, I want you to know, that- You're free." He nodded softly, fingers squeezing for a second. "You're a _man_ \- an adult- a damn scary one actually, and- you earned your respect. Nobody gave it to you- you fought for it."

 

There was a string of words Patrick never thought he'd hear. But, he liked them more than he assumed he would.

 

"If you ever want to leave, or do something else- _go_ , somewhere else," Pete's thumb grazed over his knuckles, and the smile on his face only broadened. "You can."

 

Patrick usually would've needed five minutes to process things, but the wide, brown puppy dog eyes were too much for his soul, he couldn't take that kind of stare, c'mon.

  
He jerked his hand free, but they both quickly leapt to Pete's cheeks. Trailing thumbs over cheekbones, Patrick smiled softly, a small laugh situated in his throat where it refused to leave but emerge too. "Thank you, Pete."

Pete exhaled quietly, but nodded with a smile. "Of course."

 

Patrick cocked his head, and shifted a hand back into black strands. "Thing is…" He moved his free hand down to Pete's shoulder, and shot his eyes back up to brown ones. "I don't think I want to leave."

Something hitched in Pete for a moment, but he played it off with a smile and a slight nod. "Good to hear."

  
"You're right though." Pete hummed and quirked an eyebrow, but Patrick only chuckled breathily. "That was extremely cheesy." Pete only clicked his tongue, smile broad. "I aim to please."

It took a peck on mouth from Patrick for Pete to sigh everything he'd been holding back out, but as Patrick leant away, the grin on his face was anything but sappy.

 

It was more along the lines of 'excited child'.

 

"You really think I'm scary?"

 

Pete snorted a laugh, eyes crinkling at their corners and shoulders hunching over. " _Very_." Patrick refrained from letting the happy noise in his throat leave, but soon enough, Pete was glancing back his way, brow pulled down and furrowed once again. "Do you want to come on the next raid?"

Well shit, apparently Pete was a mind reader; Damn, that would entail an actual fight, and, that was slightly terrifying but- the words were pouring out of his mouth before he could stop them.

 

"Yeah. I do."

 

Pete nodded, face solemn for only a second more before it split into a grin. "I'll make sure you don't get murdered."

Patrick couldn't hold back an indignant whine, "What happened to me being scary?" Pete only clicked his tongue, reaching out to pinch one of Patrick's cheeks, and only grinning as Patrick rolled his eyes.

 

 

"Even the most fearsome things can die, Patrick. Remember that."

 

 

 

 


	13. I'm Gonna Change You Like A Remix

 

When Patrick had been offered to go on a raid, he'd assumed a really fucking long boat journey would be included. And while it was, just as he'd expected, really long and uncomfortable, the storm had made it ten times worse.

 

The rain had subsided pretty quickly, but the dark clouds and the battering waves were there to stay.

Thankfully, he wasn't as prone to seasickness as others were- most notably the poor priest Brendon had dragged along for directional purposes, seeing as he'd been in England most recently.

  
Patrick couldn't help but wonder where they were going.

 

Sure, England was a given. Or, 'West' as some of the others were still insisting on calling it.

 

Thing was, apparently, the fleet was larger than usual, and if logic followed, that meant a bigger target than usual.

Pete had coerced a Swedish Jarl to join him, and the flock of something like seventy boats was admittedly impressive, if not absolutely terrifying.

 

Maybe they'd be attacking Wessex; It was the largest kingdom, rich enough, and was led by an old king, who would no doubt bend easily.

Or maybe they'd be picking off the smaller kingdoms, that seemed smart too. Somewhere like Northumbria could do; Small, smaller army, and a brave but stupid king. Either would work, but as for now, Pete had told him nothing.  
  
And the others were no help either. They were just as silent when asked the fateful question of where the hell they were going.

 

No matter how many times Patrick badgered anyone from Joe, to Brendon for an answer- everybody held their tongues, no matter how pained it made them look, and eventually, Patrick had given up. He'd find out soon enough anyway.

They'd sent a raven out three days ago, and it still hadn't returned; That was enough to show they were close, but on top of that, the faint calls of seagulls had started chiming out earlier that morning.

 

They were almost there.

 

He watched the priest opposite him; Tucked away at the end of the boat, half leaning over the side and half trying to look away from the bashing waves, he seemed pale, and tired.

Patrick had tried a few sympathetic smiles, and a few words of advice, but all the Christian did was occasionally glower at him. Albeit weakly.

The pale face and the green gills were too pitiful to get mad at, and it wasn't too long before Patrick had shuffled over towards him, still offering a concerned smile and kind eyes.

 

"Just breathe, face the waves- and, keep your eyes on the horizon." The priest glared for a minute, before barely holding back a retch and nodding eagerly. His eyes moved ahead with the rest of him, the former focusing on where sea met sky, while the latter turned towards the waves.

Patrick tried another sympathetic smile, but the priest only stared forwards, eyes glazed over and face as white as parchment.

Well shit, okay, he was sick…But Patrick was bored.

 

"What's your name?"

 

The priest's eyes fluttered for a moment, but he seemed to collect himself slowly, before finally mustering a reply, with a trembling, cracking voice. "Ryan."

 

And with that, brown eyes moved back to the horizon, and Patrick decided to leave him be.

  
Patrick had resigned himself to sitting in silence, and he'd come to peace with being really fucking bored, when Ryan spoke up, albeit, with a weak and nasally-sick voice. "Why me? God- why me?"

 

Rhetorical questions had always been an issue for Patrick.

 

He'd never quite seemed to understand when an answer was expected, and when there should be a moment of contemplative silence instead. And, after years of messing up- specifically during mass, like that one time he'd yelled out an answer to 'Will God forgive the wretched?', he'd decided the best thing was to keep quiet.

He'd been doing quite well in shutting the hell up for a few minutes, before the priest fisted a weak hand into Patrick's shirt, and glared shakily with dull brown eyes. "Why _me_?"

 

"…Is this about the kidnapping thing?"

 

The priest's eye twitched. And he nodded.

 

Shit, Patrick just fucking knew there'd be a coincidence for Brendon's stupid fucking-

 

"But, the churches- why- _God_ , your king _asked_ for them, we only-"

 

Patrick's Adam's apple bobbed a little. He should've really seen this coming. "He- They, needed money for the boats, but- they didn't want churches, so-"

 

" _'They'_?" The priest's eyes narrowed slightly, "I heard _you_ killed Father Æthelwulf. Split his spine, tore his lungs out, made him die like that. Screaming, with no _dignity_." Ryan shook his head lightly. "And you have _no_ remorse. I can see it in your eyes."

His hand dropped like it was burnt, and his eyes shot back over to the horizon, almost in desperation. "That makes you one of them."  
  
Patrick's face dropped into raw indignation. Fuck this guy; Who was he to come along and tell Patrick who he was? Fuck that. Ryan wasn't God. God wasn't even fucking real, he'd never proved himself anyway. The day 'God' showed himself in the sky, Patrick would believe in him, but until then: Fuck him. "I'm not-"  
  
"May God have mercy on your soul." Ryan glanced at Patrick from the corner of his eye, mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. "Even if you don't deserve it."

 

A chill ran over Patrick's spine, and it froze him to the bone as he stuck in place, still staring at a Ryan who was diligently ignoring him. God…wasn't real. God wasn't real- the God _s_ were.

 

…So why did that scare him?

 

By the time Patrick had sufficiently recovered from the verbal beating, he'd finally managed to stand, and stumble away, pacing towards the front of the ship and leaving Ryan in the shadows behind him.

  
Just as he'd crossed the oars, and had almost reached the mast, Josh- who had been leaning against the edge of the ship, cocked his head at Patrick. "How's the priest?"

His accent was heavy, and it sounded a little more nuanced than just Danish, but Patrick only shrugged with a dark stare at the clouds. "He's an asshole, I don't fucking know."

 

Josh only hummed, face still impassive as he pushed himself from the edge and ducked past, making a beeline to the back of the ship.

Patrick glanced over his shoulder. Ryan looked less angry, and only more polite now- hell, he'd even flashed a small, apologetic smile every now and then.

Patrick couldn't help his scoff. Fucking fine, they deserved each other, screw it.

 

"Patrick."

 

His head snapped back towards the mast, only to find Tyler, Dallon, and Brendon huddled on the floor beyond it.

With a blink, Patrick stepped towards them, and took a seat beside them all with an acknowledging nod.

" _Vegvisir_." A small smile grew on Tyler's face, and he reached out to tug at the collar hiding the compass on Patrick's neck. He tilted his head at it, and nodded deeply. "Pete did a good job."

He dropped his head with a light chuckle, and tore his eyes towards Patrick's. "You're looking more and more like a man every day."

 

Dallon huffed bemusedly, batting a gently hand at Patrick's jaw. "Might even be able to grow a beard soon." Patrick held back the indignant whine, since it wouldn't really help his case here, and resigned himself to a smile and a roll of his eyes as the others chortled.

 

"Hilarious. You guys are just- comedic genius."

 

Brendon's face lit up through his laughter, eyes snapping attentive and wide. "No- he's right though!" He leant back on his hands casually, and sent a grin Patrick's way. "I mean, a blood eagle and a raid in your first few years. That's impressive."

 

First few…years.

 

Years.

 

Shit, Patrick had been with them for _years_? That, seemed so long, but- it didn't _feel_ that long. Maybe- maybe these guys just recorded time differently. Yeah, that seemed logical; Seriously, a bunch of people around the world, all getting time right at the same time? No, that was dumb, there were bound to be mistakes, and-

 

Brendon leant up on his hands, head craning around blocking heads and bodies until he found Josh and Ryan. A dark brow furrowed, but Brendon's face dropped. "Shit, he's gonna steal my man."

 

Dallon chuckled, Patrick snorted- successfully freed from his thoughts on time, but Tyler scoffed and rolled his eyes, despite his… _very_ caring, steady stare on Josh. "Go reclaim your pet then."

Brendon nodded curtly and leapt to his feet, holding a thumbs up as Tyler's voice rang out after him once more.

 

"And go fetch mine too."

 

"You got it!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Home. It was home.

 

Or, _Kent_ , he supposed.

 

Home was…Lofoten, now. Not Kent.

 

The jagged grey mountains, the fluffy white snow, the impossibly green grass, and the forests. Carved wood, heaps of fur blankets, fire pits, and smoke. That was home.

Not cliffs, dull seas, cobblestone, sigils, banners- that wasn't-

 

Wait.

 

They- They were in Kent.

But, Patrick had been given away- along with, two thousand fucking pounds- for Kent. In _exchange_ for letting Kent, and all its people be.

 

…Pete was going back on his promise?

  
He'd betrayed the agreement like that? He'd broken his word? He'd- No, no, there was no way Pete would do this, this couldn't be Kent but…oh fuck, who was he kidding?

 

The small, walled city on the close horizon. The patchwork fields. The smell of the salty sea, and the white cliff faces. It was Kent. He knew it like the back of his hand. His ancestors had lived here, his parents lived here, he'd been born and raised here.

 

And Pete was gonna raze it to the ground.

 

He couldn't. There was an agreement. Wait- Maybe this was just to cross over to another, landlocked kingdom. That was a possibility, right?

That had to be it, right? Pete wouldn't go back on his word like that. He was respectable, he was honourable, he was-

 

Patrick's eyes snapped wide as he spotted Pete. He was stood away from the busy crowds at the boats, standing on a ridge with his eyes dead set on the city.

Breathless, Patrick shook his head desperately, and tore towards Pete with every might of strength and steadiness he could muster. He felt like he was gonna be sick. His legs were seasick, his chest was a maelstrom, and Patrick could only hope and pray that-

 

"Pete? Pete- I need to talk to you- please-"

 

Pete turned his way, eyes soft and smile as gentle as ever. Patrick fought until his spine was straight, his brow was furrowed, and his chin was raised. He needed answers, being weak and pathetic wasn't going to get them. "Pete. Why are we in Kent?"

  
There was no babying from Pete, and he only gazed back towards the castle as he gave his reply. "We're on a raid."

 

Patrick shattered into a million pieces. Through a stuttering tongue, wide eyes, and dulled wit, it took him minutes to even be able to say a coherent string of words. "But- you- my- my father paid you to-"

 

"Do you remember that day?" Pete's eyes were stuck on the stone turrets, and on the distant, ant-like figures bustling around the structure.

 

Patrick shook his head, incredulous and still feeling slow. The day he'd been ripped away from home? The day his entire life had changed? "Yeah…of course, how could I not?"

 

Pete glanced towards him, chin still high but eyes still soft. "Do you remember everything? Specifics?"

 

"I mean- I- I don't know what kind of specifics you mean."

 

Pete said nothing for a moment, and only kept staring at the castle in the distance. "What your father said. Do you remember it?"

Patrick held back a scoff; Jesus- They were standing on Kent's- his _father's_ territory. The exact place Pete had promised never to be again. This wasn't the fucking time for being cryptic-

 

 

" _'Every day that my son lives in misery, is one you and your kind will never set foot in Kent'_."

 

 

Oh.

 

Oh shit.

 

Oh shit, no fucking way-

 

Pete quirked an eyebrow at Patrick, "And you're happy now. No longer, 'living in misery', so-" Brown eyes drifted back towards the walled city in the distance. "By your father's terms, _m_ _y kind_ and I, can-"

 

"Is that why you did all this?"

 

Pete turned back to Patrick, looking taken aback and stuttered as his words were swiftly cut off by Patrick's.

The younger of the two could only stare, eyes almost unblinking and mouth hanging open. He had to know. He had to know- and the question fucking hurt, the words ached to say, but he _needed_ to know. "Did you _pretend_ to be in love with me?"

 

Pete's face dropped and he shook his head quickly. "Patrick, don't be-"

 

Fuck.

 

"You did, didn't you?" Everything felt numb, and whitened out. Every spark of anger, frustration, and betrayal was hidden behind a fog that made it all blurry, at least for now. Fuck, he could just feel how hard he was gonna break down later, he could feel the layers of everything he wanted to say and do mounting up in the pit of his stomach.

Pete had fallen silent, but the minute Patrick's eyes drifted away, and the second he made a move to walk away, his hands were on Patrick's forearms, pulling him back. The grip was gentle, Patrick could've easily fought out of it, but he obliged. As always.

 

"Patrick, listen to me." Patrick's eyes closed, and his jaw clenched in irritation. His hair was standing on end, and there was a snake writhing in his stomach. His throat ached and scratched when he spoke, but he kept his nerve through the lump there, despite keeping his hands balled into fists. "Last I checked, I have ears, so get on with it."

He could hear Pete's quiet exhale. Hell, he could just about see it in his head at this point, he'd seen it so many times; So many times when-

 

"I didn't pretend. I swear to you- I didn't pretend." The voice was slightly warbled as Pete's hands slid onto the sides of Patrick's face, thumbs trailing over his cheekbones. Patrick forced his knees to lock. He couldn't fucking swoon right now- or, ever again.

When Pete spoke again, his voice was harder, but suppressing something. "I fell in love with you. I did- I truly did. And I just wanted you to be happy."

 

Patrick ignored the palms and digits on the sides of his face, and he fought away the twitch in his own hands to cover them. "So, you being able to attack my family was just a happy coincidence."

Pete exhaled again, but it was harder, and sharper. "Patrick, please just be ration-"

  
Patrick leapt to grab Pete's wrists, as he snapped his eyes open. He kept his boring gaze steady, and solely on Pete, while his voice dropped quietly, but harsher than he'd ever imagined it could be. "You're the one who needs to listen." He tightened his fingers, watching the golden skin melt into white around them.

Patrick's voice shook with every syllable he spoke, and despite the festering anger in his chest, all that tried to escape were desperate, afraid tears. But Patrick held it back. He had to hold it back. "You took me from my _family_."

 

"I didn't mean-"

 

"You _stole_ any semblance of a normal, good life I could've had."

 

"What- being a _snivelling Christian_ for the rest of your life?" Pete jerked his hands away, but kept his stare fused with Patrick's; His shoulders were tense, his chin was raised, and he wasn't going out on his knees, apparently.

A sneer worked its way onto Pete's face. "A bored wife, and weak children, while you would've gotten fat and tired in a fucking _library_. Is that what you call a 'good life'?"

 

Patrick couldn't listen to him. He couldn't listen. It wasn't what- Patrick's fingers twitched. "You turned me into something I'm not."  
  
The dark-haired man scoffed lightly, a look of pure indignation on his face. "I didn't turn you into _anything_. _I_ gave you the tools, and _you_ carved the path. Don't blame that on _me_ -"

 

"You made me kill people."

 

"I seem to remember _a smile_ on your face while you tore that priest's lung out- or was I imagining that, Patrick?"

 

"You made me destroy things I've revered my entire life-" Patrick's voice was a hiss, but as a hand leapt to his collar, and pulled it down just enough to show off the compass there, it turned venomous. "And you branded me like an animal."

 

Pete was silent, but the twitching rage was obvious on his face; The wrinkled nose, the sneer, the squinting eyes- he wasn't good at hiding what was going on in his head, he didn't hide things behind a wall of stone.

 

He wasn't gonna buckle. But neither was Patrick.

 

Holding a hard stare, one of Patrick's hands drifted to his knife, but Pete only scoffed at it. The younger of the two kept staring however, and when he was confident his voice would break or crack, he finally spoke again. "And you did it all for greed."

 

Pete said nothing. He only stared.

 

"All because, you weren't fucking _content_ with two thousand pounds, and _me_. My father- every fucking monk that wrote about the northmen- they were right. Demons. Demons that only want blood and gold- the only fucking thing that their minuscule brains can fucking comprehend."

Surging forwards, Patrick's eyes lowered into a squint. Pete didn't even flinch. "You always need more- your kind, always wants _more_ , and it'll never fucking end."

 

The brown eyes were steadfast, and the silence was scalding Patrick where he stood.

 

"Will it?"

 

There was another beat of burning silence, brown and blue eyes linked in a firm stare that neither was winning or losing.

When Pete spoke again, all he needed were two words to undo the last stitch keeping everything together in Patrick.

 

 

" _Our_ kind."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He wasn't one of them. He wasn't one of them- fuck, he wasn't like them, he wasn't like them, he couldn't be like them-

 

Patrick had gotten away, Pete had let him go without a fight, and he'd bolted away to the walled city as fast as his legs would carry him.  
He was closer now, speeding along the old, dusty dirt road he'd seen a million times.

 

Patrick's eyes snapped upwards at the old, wooden gates that had stood for centuries. A miserable, twitchy smile split onto his face in a mere second, but before he knew it, logic was ricocheting its way back into Patrick's head.

He needed to find his parents. He needed to warn them- maybe, with enough time, with enough of a warning- maybe they could escape. Maybe they could save some lives- maybe they could-

With a nod to himself, he surged forwards, walking as quickly as he could while refraining from a run. He just needed to get to the courtyard, Kevin was always-

  
A hand on his chest, and a shove backwards. A guard- or, two…or, more specifically, two guards who had been employed since he'd been a toddler.

They stared at him oddly, noses wrinkled curiously, but brows furrowed suspiciously.  
  
"Trader?"

 

Patrick's face fell in an instant. They didn't… _recognize_ him?

He shook his head quickly. They had to recognize him, they had to know him; For god's sake, they'd been there since he'd been a kid, they were…they were called…they-

 

Fuck.

 

Patrick was so fucking bad at remembering names.

 

"Uh- no, I'm- I'm Patrick, I-"

 

One of the guards glanced at the other, oddly once again. "Alright…Nice to meet you, _Patrick_ , but, if you're not a trader, we can't let you in. We have orders to-"

 

Patrick's eyes snapped wide, but he stopped himself lurching forwards as hands moved to sword hilts. "No no no- you need to let me in, I have to talk to my-"

Patrick's eyes lit up.

 

Kevin.

 

Courtyard- that was only a few meters away. He just needed to push past them, he just needed to see his brother; Kevin would remember him. Kevin would know who he was, he'd recognize his own brother, right? Fuck- of course he would, there was no question about it.

  
So now, Patrick just needed to get past the guards. The gates were wide, and open, but just running past might not work, they had archers on the turrets. Maybe he could hold one at knife point- no, that would cause too much of a commotion.

 

…Could he still pretend to be a trader?

 

"Patrick?"

 

Megan.

 

The soft, high voice was heaven, and Patrick's head snapped towards it immediately.

 

His sister. His big sister. As poised and regal as ever.

 

The facade was slipping just a little though, all as her eyes fixed on Patrick, and as her jaw hung open. The guards' faces blanked in something between realization, and fear; No doubt, realization that it was their fucking _prince_ , and probably, fear at denying him access.

 

The moment Patrick stepped forwards, they fell to the sides obediently, eyes blank but apologetic as Patrick paced through the open gates on shaky knees.

 

He stopped in front of Megan, both sets of powder blue eyes wide and both siblings in silence. She looked stiff, but it only lasted a moment before she lurched forwards, and engulfed Patrick in a bone crushing hug that lasted mere seconds. Hey, it was longer than any one she'd given him before.

 

As she pulled back, her brow was furrowed and her eyes were squinted. She shook her head lightly, hands still braced on Patrick's shoulders. "I don't- I don't understand, how are you here?"

Her eyes moved to the obvious lines on his neck. Megan's nose wrinkled curiously, and her eyes stayed fixed on the point. "And…what's _that_?"

 

Mission- mission- Patrick was on a mission, he had to warn her, he had to warn them all- "I need to talk to father."

 

Her eyes raised to his again, wide and sparked with something a little fearful. "…Did you bring them with you?"

 

Patrick's brow furrowed instantly, his head jerking indignantly. "I- no, I didn't- I mean, they- _I_ didn't bring-"  
Her hands fell away, she stepped backwards. "What have you done, Patrick?" Patrick couldn't help his breathless scoff, "I didn't do anything! It's not my fault-"  


Patrick exhaled sharply. He needed to stay calm. He just needed to relax, to reassert sense.

With level eyes, and a steady voice, Patrick raised his chin again. "I need to speak to our father, Megan."

 

There was something distant about her as she nodded curtly.

 

"The church."

 

With a murmured ' _Thank you_ ', Patrick brushed past her and made a beeline for the church, calling on shaky memory to guide him there.

 

There had been something about the faded disdain in her eyes. The muted fear in her voice. The defensiveness of her stance.

 

 

Something about her didn't feel like his sister anymore.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A question: Would anyone read a memey, more humor-orientated story, like the superpower fic, again?


	14. Then I'll Raise You Like A Phoenix

 

Patrick never thought he'd see that look on his father's face.

 

It was somewhere between disdain, contempt, and frozen shock. Like him, his father was good at hiding what was going on in his head…except, when faced by some new, horrific threat.

The first time the Northmen had stepped through the great hall's doors, that stone wall built around his fears had collapsed into rubble, and Patrick had understood. How couldn't he be afraid? The invaders were unlike anything they'd ever seen.

Whether it had been the axes, the dark marks all over their skin, or the long focused stares they gave, they might as well have been from another planet, and the look on his father's face had been telling.

 

But now, that stare was directed towards him. There were barely any words. They weren't needed; Everything from the shock to the disappointment was there, electric, and tangible, and heavy in the air.

 

"Patrick? You- How are you here? Wait- God, no, you didn't bring them with you, did you?"

 

The church was the same as it had always been. Stone, tinted windows, statues of mourning saints, and spires that were so tall it made him dizzy.

It was different from home. It was…colder, somehow.

Sure, home was entrenched in snow during the winter, and the rest of the year was just as bitingly cold. There were only roughly two weeks of what Patrick would call 'summer', and even if the sun was shining, if the plants were thriving, or if the animals were happy, it was always just a little freezing.

 

And somehow, this church, this castle, these walls- it was cold. Cold in a way he'd never felt before, in a way he'd never noticed.

The grey of stone bricks, the tepid light that barely fought through the murky clouds, the bland, desaturated colours; What should've been bright green was barely, dark sage, and the skies and sea were as dull as slate.

 

It was halfhearted, it was cold, and it wasn't how he'd remembered it.

 

When he finally mustered an answer, it was small and repentant, and it died in his throat before it had even tried. "I di-"

 

Maybe, distance had made his heart fonder. Fonder for something that didn't really exist.

He'd missed the homely landscapes, the stone walls, the windows, but now that he stood there, surrounded by all those things, it was uncomfortable. And he missed the warmth of fire pits, and the dim rooms they barely lit up.

 

And then there was his family.

 

Kevin's brow was furrowed now, his shoulders were back and he looked somewhere between indignation and a challenge. "You look like them." Low, disappointed, horrified. "You- What's- Father, his neck."

 

"What is that?"

 

They'd never really been close, but then again, families weren't supposed to be.

Since he'd been born, since all his siblings had been born, they were all goods; Things to be exchanged, sold, and traded for profit. It was like that for everyone, not just him.

 

His father's voice came again, louder this time, trying to impose that old authority that had stopped working on him a while ago. It thundered like a storm, and boomed about the stone walls like a lightning bolt. "What is that, Patrick?"

 

On the lower ends of life, peasants would try and marry their prettiest daughters to knights, and on the higher hand, kings would give their children to other royals.

Everyone would punch above their weight, everyone would try and get ahead, and that's just how it was.

 

It had never bothered Patrick, and he'd always assume he'd be part of the same cycle.

He'd be shipped away by his parents, or he'd marry some girl who had been sent to them instead.

 

"Patrick. _P_ _lease_." His mother's voice now. Laced with that fake politeness that had tainted every, so-called sincere word since he'd been able to crawl.

Patrick didn't even bother raising his gaze, it was too stuck on the large, stained glass window behind them; The centrepiece of the painstakingly built church, saints, doves, and crosses, all surrounding Jesus- dead and dry on the cross.

 

Patrick was a bargaining chip, just like Kevin was, just like Megan was.

It wasn't about being happy. It was about leaving a mark, a line of descendants, and a name in the world, to keep your place after you were gone.

 

"Vegvisir." He knew they wouldn't understand the word, he knew it sounded like an unintelligible beastly growl to them, and the horrified flashes on their faces were just what he'd expected.

The recoil that followed would've almost made him laugh, if his head hadn't been addled with agonizing over _what to do_.

 

The silence that followed it was heavy, but the whispers he could totally hear, were a little worse.

 

Despite what Patrick had thought he was, his father had slapped the expectations out of him that day a few years ago.

He used to think he was important, in a way. An asset that could be used to an advantage. A high-quality good that came attached with an old name and a promise of wealth. Maybe he could be used to make a treaty, to form an alliance, to do… _something_.

But, instead, his father had been ready to sell him off for nothing in return, in a second flat- Hell, he'd been ready to give _Megan_ away, his _only_ daughter.  
The king really hadn't foreseen this? What kind of assurance did he have that Patrick would be miserable with the Northmen? And hadn't he cared?

 

He'd tied Patrick up like a criminal, and he'd shoved him away to the foreign ships, with nothing but blankness on his face. No remorse, no hesitation, just a cold, harsh decision. Maybe that's what it took to be king, but it felt unnatural to Patrick now; It would've been normal, and unquestionable once, but now…

 

His father- his mother, they loved him, right?

 

Parents were supposed to love their children, but Patrick hadn't really felt anything close to 'being loved', at least, not from them. But, he was their son, and it followed to reason that they'd love him...at least, _a little_ , right?

 

Well, if they did…he couldn't feel it.

 

 

He stood in that church, feet practically stuck to the stone floor, the closed door just behind him, and something twisted in his gut.

When the small gathering there- nothing more than his parents, his brother, and a few priests and a bishop, had turned to look at him, and when he saw the looks on the faces there- something told him to leave.

It implored him to turn on his heel, stride away as quickly as he could, and get back to Pete.

 

Fuck. It was exhausting, but deep down, he knew Pete hadn't pretended.

 

Now, Patrick might've been a little naive still, but he wasn't stupid.

He could tell when Pete was lying by now. Patrick knew every tick and every quirk. It didn't matter if Pete was baring his soul, or if he was spitting out a well-weaved lie, Patrick knew.

 

"What did they do to you?" The tone was disgusted, but morbidly curious, and at the words, Patrick's eyes flicked down to his father. And Patrick knew he was holding that same, oddly focused stare Pete had held at the same eyes years ago.  
It made his chest swell with something, it faintly felt like pride, but it was tainted with embarrassment, with remorse, with an urge to just fucking leave.

 

As the tension had calmed, as his mind had slowed down, and as he'd come to his senses, he wasn't sure if he'd made the right decision.

His stomach was a ball of writhing snakes, and his legs felt like weak sticks as he stood there, under the steady, burning gazes that made everything flare up and that made him feel _worse_.

 

Patrick's eyelids fluttered for a moment. His tongue felt like a dead weight in his mouth, but focusing every inch of his brain, he mustered a half-coherent reply. "Lot of things."

 

It'd hurt to admit before, but he could say it without being crushed by a rock of guilt now: This wasn't home anymore.

Home was back on the shore, probably stood by the boats, probably sharpening a sword. The only home that had ever made him happy, that had taken care of him, that had taught him things, the only home that had ever loved him.

 

Fuck- home was Pete, Pete was home, and he'd been stupid enough to leave it.

 

Patrick wanted to go home, but he couldn't just turn and walk out- with no explanation, without a reason. Too much suspicion, too many questions; He might ruin an entire plan.

The raiders were going to attack today, he knew they were. It wouldn't take them long to reach the city now, and his presence wouldn't do much in the way of helping the element of surprise, so-

 

He had to distract them.

 

He had to distract them just long enough for the others to arrive, and then-

 

" _Specifics_ , Patrick." Kevin was angrier than Patrick had remembered, he looked older too. They all did, actually; More wrinkles, more creases. His mother's hair was streaked with white, and his father's was peppered with grey. His brother just looked tired.

 

Patrick shook his head a little, forcing himself out of a stupor and dragging his mind into the actual situation. Okay, distraction, he just needed to keep them talking long enough. That would help, right? God- he was ruining a whole plan, he was so fucking stupid, why had he ran away-

 

"I- I don't know what you want- what you _mean_ , by specifics."

Keep deflecting, avoid the questions, but don't piss them off, don't get kicked out. Okay, okay, he could do this.

  
Kevin scoffed sharply, the annoyance was obvious. Maybe deflection wasn't the best tactic, but he still had to keep them talking.

…Patrick was, just about, a living oddity to them now, right? Maybe…maybe he had to do the opposite of avoidance, maybe he had to talk about everything. A statement would lead to questions, another answer would lead to more curiosities in need of explanation; Yeah, that was it, he needed to keep them talking by any means possible.

 

Kevin cocked his head back at Patrick, eyes hard and mouth set straight.

 

"Why do you have that on your neck?"

 

Kevin looked tired, he looked fed up.  
It only took one rake of his eyes for Patrick to spot the band around one of Kevin's fingers. Married. Probably had kids by now…And their father looked old.

 

The exhaustion made sense.

 

Among the stresses of a new family, the old family was slowly decaying away too. Kevin was readying himself to be king, that suppressed volatility, the way their father just let him growl and snarl. Their father was getting old, but Kevin was rising to take his place already. Patrick was glad he wouldn't be around to watch him change; To watch him morph from a zealous kid into, what was shaping up to be, a pretty angry king.

  
Patrick shrugged lightly, keeping his eyes dull but level. He couldn't let emotion get the best of him, he couldn't start trying to mourn what he never had. "Someone put it there for me."

Kevin spoke up again, their father shrinking back a little in his eldest's shadow. " _Who_?"

 

Patrick hesitated, and Kevin latched onto the pause like a leech. "What- that heathen that stole you? Is that it?"

It took a non-committal stare, and a moment of silence to defuse the bomb that was shaping up to be his brother, before Patrick tried another few words. "His name is Pete."

 

Something twitched over Kevin's face, his eyes narrowed, and his stone-like expression set in place. "Did you bring them with you?"

As much as Patrick wanted to ring back to their father's idiotic deal, he held his tongue; That would cut any conversation dead, and he needed to keep them distracted. So instead, he said nothing at all, and only averted his eyes once again.

 

"Patrick." Low, a final warning. "Did you bring them with you?"

 

"I didn't br-"

 

"But they're here. Aren't they?"

 

Fuck it.

 

Patrick squinted and cocked his head, hazarding a step forwards. Okay, this motherfucker wanted a confrontation? Good. Brilliant. "Fine. I brought them here. Happy?"

Their father, finally snapping out of his son's shadow, made an indignant noise. "We had a _deal_ -"  
  
"A deal that ended-" Patrick kept his stare long as it bored into his father. He wondered if he looked as scary as Pete had those years ago. "Once I stopped living in ' _misery_ '."

  
Faces blanked, as Patrick assumed realization ran rife.

 

Kevin scoffed first, trying a shake of his head. "You were- God, Patrick, you were living with heathens, how could you- how could you be anything but _miserable_?"

Patrick couldn't help the sneer that worked its way onto his face. Miserable. That's what they'd expected him to be, that's what they'd wanted him to be; They'd wanted him to be a good, Christian martyr. They'd wanted him to suffer, to be pious and to keep his faith, even when everything proved it was wrong.

 

"I'm happier there, than I ever was here." He kept his squint, his voice lacing and weaving with more and more indignation with every syllable. "At least- At least they actually care about me. Y'know- Fuck, at least, they would never fucking _sell_ me, like some _animal_ -"

 

Their father tried retaining his composure, even through the obvious anger in his eyes. "Patrick. We did what we had to do for the good of-"  
  
"No- _you_ did. _You_ \- not _we_." Patrick took another step forwards " _You_ sold me for the 'good of the kingdom', but you couldn't even do _that_ right. I was a bargaining chip, and you didn't even use me right-"  
He took a shaky breath, letting his gaze rake the room for a moment. When he finally spoke, he made sure his tone was dripping with sarcasm. "So, _forgive me_ , for actually being happy, when someone treats me like a human being instead of an investment, alright?"

 

They were silent now, looking on in abject disgust- along with the stunned, low shock of seeing the son they'd probably taken for dead in front of their very eyes. Patrick didn't care, he kept reeling off his words, all while completely ignoring the stares and the looks.

Patrick couldn't help it anymore, and he could only keep ranting as his voice teetered on the edge of either a sob or a scream. "So- forgive me, when someone actually loves me because I'm me, and not because they're fucking _obligated_ to, okay?"

 

"And I don't fucking know why I even tried- I don't know why I- You don't- I ran away for no fucking-" Patrick took a trembling breath, but he froze halfway through, eyes sticking to his parents. "I shouldn't have come here." He retracted his step, shaking his head as he moved back. He needed to get back to Pete. Screw explanations, screw distractions, he needed Pete, he wanted-

 

 

"Very true. You're a lot better than this, Patrick."

 

 

Pete.

 

His head snapped around, and his ears blanked out his family's sounds of horror as he gazed. Smiling despite the situation, Pete was leaning against one of the doors, looking suspiciously rugged with a red stained axe in his hand, as he wiped it with a free sleeve.

 

Pete pushed away from the door, stepping forwards and heading past Patrick, before stopping shy of the three and the priests.

He glanced back over his shoulder, turning to face Patrick with a slightly more solemn look about him. When he spoke, it was low, and in the tongue his parents could never understand.

 

"We can't leave Kent intact, Patrick." He shook his head lightly, a sad, tiny smile on his face. "The news will spread, and…"

Patrick returned the tiny smile, misery fully settled there. "There'll be consequences."

Pete nodded. "Exactly."

 

Powder blue eyes shifted over to three other pairs, all stony whilst trying to hide fear behind them. They darted back over to Pete. "What do you need to do?"

The dark-haired man bristled a little, his jaw clenching and writhing a little. He was nervous.  
Patrick stepped forwards, and put a hand on Pete's cheek, trying a smile through dull eyes and ignoring every scoff or disgusted stare he received.

 

Pete's eyes flicked upwards. "Your father. And your brother."

Patrick's breath stuttered, and his brain short-circuited for a mere second before he sighed quietly. No male heirs. He was really trying to topple this kingdom. And for some reason, Patrick didn't care anymore.

 

He nodded.

 

"Do it."

 

Pete blinked softly, and his nod was quick, but the peck to his cheek was quicker. "Go. You shouldn't have to see it."

He was right. He was always fucking right.  
  
Patrick turned slowly. This was it. If he just waked away right now, then…No. No- screw it. He was gonna do it, he was gonna be brave, it was gonna be okay.

The walk towards the door felt like the longest of his life, but as he reached the doors, he froze.

 

Patrick turned, glancing over his shoulder and fixing his eyes on Pete.

 

"He probably has kids. I don't know if they're boys or girls, but…"

 

Pete nodded, eyes dull and something heavy behind them.

 

"Get back to the ships, Patrick."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He just stood there, staring at the wounded walled city. Every breath he took was contaminated by faint ashes and smoke that sat the short distance away.

Patrick squinted at the towers and the turrets, the very ones he'd spent entire days climbing when he was young. The flames licking just over the walls burned in his oil black pupils, making his eyes blind and ache.

There was a dismissive noise from behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch Brendon cocking his head at the shattered shell of the city. "I've seen better."

 

As Pete drifted up next to him, stepping up the shallow hill past pebbles and grass, he stared out at the smoky ruin, but said nothing. Joe squinted out at the walls, "I don't know, I think Essex was bigger."

Brendon made an indignant sound, " _Bigger_ \- that's a total fucking lie.

 

The voices faded as they moved away, their bickering growing fainter as their footsteps followed, and as soon as the others were tiny figures by the boats, Pete moved up to Patrick's side.

It was obvious he'd tried to clean himself up some, but the faint streaks and splatters on his clothes and skin made Patrick's stomach swirl.

 

Maybe that splatter on his cheek had been his father.

 

Maybe that smudge of his nose had been his brother.

 

Maybe that splash on his chest had been his nephew.

 

He tried not to think about it.

 

"…I know it might be a stupid question, but- are you okay?"

 

Patrick glanced up to his side, eyes flicking towards Pete. He did his best not to stare at the stains, and he smiled. "Yeah. I'm fine."

The older of the two smiled back, and nudged Patrick gently with an elbow. "Ready to go?" Patrick couldn't help his grateful sigh, or his eager nod.

He knew he should've started towards the boats, but instead, he put the splotches to the back of his mind and collapsed forwards, tangling himself with Pete tightly for the longest moments he could manage.

His voice was only a muffled sob into Pete's shoulder, but somehow, the older understood it. "I love you, Pete."

Pete wove his arms around Patrick, sighing quietly and pecking at his hair softly. "I love you too, Patrick."

 

 

He was home. And he'd stay there for good.

 

 

 

 


	15. Paris In The Springtime

 

The day was cold. Obviously. It was always fucking cold here- goddammit, Patrick still wasn't over losing summer.

 

Two more years of living in this place, and Patrick still wasn't resistant to this bullshit weather. But, thankfully, he'd mastered the art of wearing an unholy amount of sweaters layers, so at least he wouldn't be freezing to death today.

 

Everything from the sky to the sea was stuck in freezing spring. Whereas, when he'd been younger, spring had been warm, and green, and decent- that wasn't the case anymore.

Here, it was the time for the world to thaw itself from winter.

That meant a constant chill in the air, steaming breath, the remnants of frost clinging to everything, and mud. _A lot_ of mud- courtesy of melting snow.

 

It was worth it though- it made everything a hell of a lot prettier. And truthfully, it had become Patrick's favourite, odd, non-official time of year.

It was too cold for people to be out ' _walking_ ', or, ' _enjoying the day_ ', but it was just warm enough to make sitting outside a viable option.

So, for those few weeks of melting winter, Patrick would watch.

 

He'd watch the birds, the waves, the trees, the occasional escaped cat walking around- and he'd stare at it all from a cliff. Yes, a cliff.

Now, Patrick, being one for _safety_ and, _staying alive_ , had never really liked the cliffs and mountains that dotted the landscape here. Whenever Pete insisted on climbing one, _like the child he was_ \- Patrick would stare, and Patrick would wait for the inevitable injury...And then Patrick would treat said injury, goddammit Pete, you broke a fucking rib, you could've died-

 

Inhale. Exhale. Patrick was over the broken rib incident.

 

…But- okay. Fine. There was a positive side to ridiculously dangerous mountains too.

 

_Silence_.

 

Or, peace and quiet, to be exact- which was hard to find nowadays; Especially since, when Pete and his friends disappeared on a raid, the _Jarl_ , would leave Patrick in charge.

Being followed around by people arguing about a stolen chicken wasn't fun, and, sitting on a throne and listening to people whine sucked balls, so, understandably, this particular cliff, stowed a good distance away from Tyler's house, was his only refuge.

 

Groaning quietly, he rubbed at one of his eyes. They prickled with needles and thorns, and he was pretty sure they were covered in tangled, red webs.

Sleeping without Pete was tricky. As much as he hated how dependent he was on Pete for a good night's sleep, he couldn't help it. And, a lack of sleep meant Patrick was more irritable than usual, and that meant an unhealthy amount of sarcasm, that could probably alienate him from every other person in the country in like, three seconds.

 

So, technically, sitting on a cliff and freezing his ass off was the best thing to do, right?

 

Ah, fuck it. Even if it wasn't the best option, he just couldn't _go home_ and _listen to land disputes_. He just had to avoid every grievance he could until Pete came back, and then _he_ could deal with some guy killing a deer on another guy's land- that was his responsibility, anyway.

 

Patrick sighed and rested a cheek on his hand. This was…actually impossibly boring- no, no- Patrick just had to appreciate nature, and stuff.

He nodded to himself and forced his back up and straight. Yeah, exactly- the water sure was…wet, today.

 

...

 

Well fuck.

 

Patrick was bored.

 

He drew his knees up and let his forehead fall into them. He was stranded; It wasn't like he could go back home, or, like he could stroll through town without getting asked to sentence some guy to execution- he was stuck.

  
Pete was sure taking his sweet time. Asshole.

_He_ was the Jarl here, not Patrick…Okay, maybe Patrick should've been  _flattered_ and  _honoured_ to be left in charge, and yeah, it'd been pretty cool at first. But now, it wasn't so awesome anymore, and Patrick just wanted peace and quiet, was that too much to ask?

 

"Hiding from  responsibilities again?"

 

With a long suffering sigh, Patrick didn't even spare a glance as Pete- looking dishevelled, tired and plain worn out, sat next to him, crossing his legs and leaning forwards to chase a focused gaze.

 

Patrick huffed, hiding a smile and resisting the ever-pressing urge to jump Pete, hug him, and not stop hugging him for twelve years…He was clingy and he'd missed Pete, it wasn't  _his_ fault. 

 

"Pretty sure they're  _your_ responsibilities- you just _gave_ them to me."

 

Pete chuckled, it was genuine, but his voice sounded hoarse and rough like pebbled sand. Had the raid been hard? He found that hard to believe; Then again, they  _had_ been going after Wessex,  but-

His eyes drifted over to Pete.

 

"How was England?"

 

Pete huffed bemusedly, shifting even closer until their shoulders touched.  "Fucked." 

 

Of course it was.

 

After… _Kent_ , a few years ago,  Pete had insisted on repeating the carnage on the rest of the smaller kingdoms. They'd been picking them off; One by one, kings fell and they assigned rulers in their places.  
Sure, the people hadn't been too happy with Northmen rulers, but they always found a way to make the riots stop, even if Patrick didn't want think about  _how_ .

Contention, arguing, and a hell of a lot of blood spilt, Patrick's old homeland had been torn apart by wolves, and it made something stir in the pit of his stomach. 

Maybe it was guilt, it sure felt like it, but he'd learned to ignore it, to push it down and away.

 

Dealing with what had happened to- with what Pete had- No, it wasn't Pete's fault; Patrick could've stopped him destroying Kent, but he didn't.

And, whenever doubt and remorse crept into Patrick like a shadow, he'd remind himself. He'd scold himself, he'd make his voice stern and his resolve firm; It had been the right thing to do, and it was just how the world was. If Patrick had to be on a side, he'd rather be on the winning one.

 

Patrick glanced over to Pete again. "Did you find much?" The dark-haired man shook his head with a sigh, and leant back on his hands. Damn, he really looked beat; Seafaring for such a long time was hard enough, but between fighting, negotiating, and plotting on his feet, it couldn't have been easy for Pete.

 

" Those bastards are as poor as we are-" He scoffed, cutting his own words shut. "And the Russians are even  _poorer_ . If that's possible."

 

Poor. Huh.

 

Patrick chewed on the inside of his cheek;  The skin was ragged from that little nervous habit, and as the faint tang of iron filled his mouth, something struck him.

They were the North, so, no point in going there. West was destroyed, and poor. East was poorer, and wouldn't be getting rich any time soon. So, logically, the only way to go, was-

 

"South."

 

Pete's head fell to the side, and his brow furrowed in a silent question. A slow grin spread over Patrick's face. Yeah, south- that could work, that could actually work.

He shifted to face Pete, keeping his eyes wide and reassuring as he tried to sound as convincing as possible. 

One hand on Pete's arm, fingers tight, and Patrick knew he had the solution. "Go south." He urged, watching Pete as yet, more confusion took over his features. "I don't- I-" 

Pete gaped for a second, mouth opening and closing like a fish's.  It took him a good few minutes before he managed stuttered words. "You- You mean, there's  _more_ , than England?"

 

Patrick scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Duh." But- Oh.  Yeah. Pete didn't know there was more.

Finding England had been a surprise, a crazy endeavour they hadn't expected to lead anywhere, and yet, they'd been brave enough to try.

But South, well, that was further, and of course, Pete wouldn't know anything about it.

 

"There's uh- There's Saxony, and Bohemia, and Burgundy. Swabia, Bavaria,  Hungary- " Pete looked entranced, but Patrick  didn't notice, he only kept reeling the names off. "Poland, Leon, Castille,  Aragon, and- Portugal. There's Lorraine- high  _AND_ lower, they keep bitching about uniting- oh, and all of fucking _Hispania_. Oh, but the moors, that's gonna be tricky to-" 

 

Patrick froze, eyes painfully wide, and stinging and watering from the cold air. "Oh. Oh. Oh, wait. Dude-" Patrick clapped a hand on Pete's shoulder, digging his fingers into taut muscle and bone. "The Holy Roman Empire. It's _huge_ , and richer than- oh my g- Seriously, that's the fucking golden ticket dude-"  
  
"Jus- Gi- Give me a second." Pete weakly held up a hand, eyes still wide, glazed, and unfocused. His mouth hung open like his jaw weighed a hundred pounds, and Patrick could see the ideas exploding behind them like gunpowder.

Brown eyes trailed upwards again, fixing themselves on Patrick in a long, boring stare. His hands took Patrick's, fingers gripping pale digits urgently.  
Patrick leant forwards, eyes still the size of full moons and noses inches apart.

 

"Are you _sure_?"

 

Patrick nodded. No hesitation, no preamble, only a solid nod and a determined spark in his eyes. "Completely."

Pete exhaled. It was shaky, and deep, and Patrick could feel his fingers trembling under his own. He gripped them a little tighter. "There are…Gods- so many kingdoms." He tilted his head, offering a reassuring smile. " You might wanna start with the small ones, but-"

 

"Are they rich?"

 

Patrick clicked his tongue quietly, and dropped his eyes for a second. No, no- they were well off, but not  _rich_ . Not like Britain had been.

Then again, the richest kingdoms were too much of a challenge for them alone; Hell, they'd need tens of boats- no,  _hundreds_ . The Holy Roman Empire, that would take so many lives alone, and it wasn't like they could just send men to the slaughter like that.

No, no- shit, maybe this wasn't a soluti-

 

Patrick's eyes widened.

 

That was it.

 

They needed something just like England. Similar in size, similar in wealth.  
He raised his eyes, a grin splitting onto his face quickly. 

 

"Have you ever heard of France?"

 

Pete blinked. "Patrick-"

 

"Oh right- sorry, I forgot-"

  
"I thought we established I don't-"

 

"France is the best option." Patrick squeezed Pete's hands again, and his grin broadened a little more when he felt just how steady they were now.

"France." Pete repeated the words, testing how they felt as his stare became idle again. A few more mutters of the name was all it took before Pete started nodding, brow furrowed and eyes squinting determinedly.  


"I would never doubt you."

 

They shot upwards, finding Patrick with ease. The younger of the men sighed contentedly.

Shit, he was so relieved he'd found a solution; They couldn't have just kept raiding England until it was a shell, and- it hadn't even occurred to him that Pete hadn't known about all the other opportunities right at their door.

So much gold, so much land- it was all right there, a journey South, and they'd find it all-

 

"But I have some questions."

 

Shit.

 

Patrick tried a smile, and nodded, doing a poor job of hiding any anxieties crawling through him. "Shoot."

 

"So." Pete straightened his back, releasing Patrick's hands and turning that old, fervent curiosity on. "Where do we go first?"

The answer was obvious to Patrick. He smiled to himself, eyes soft in old thoughts and memories; Those geography lessons had really paid off right now, his attention to the old, insanely boring teacher had been well repaid. "A city."

 

Pete hummed, and leant forwards, closing the gap to a few inches. He smiled gently, but broadly, and his eyes were still glowing with that old spark of want, and will. "And how do we reach the city? Are any Lords or- kings, going to try and stop us?"

 

"I'll find a way to get us in, don't worry about that." Patrick needed to dispel his worries, it was all he could do round about now- other than, plan, and desperately try and remember old castle illustrations.  
  
Pete nodded, eyes clear with more sincerity than before. "I know you will." The stare stayed, however, and Patrick decided to oblige. He still wasn't over obliging; Pete just had that infuriating effect on him, and Patrick was sure it'd be that way forever.

 

"There's a king, but- he's, irrelevant. What's really important-" The beam spread over Patrick's face again, but this time, it was tinged with a slyness that had only really grown and flourished here; He'd never been this mischievous when he was younger, he'd always been too damn bad at lying.

 

"Is the city _itself_."

 

Pete cocked his head again, brow pulled down in a silent question that Patrick was quick to put to bed. "It's on an island. It's surrounded by water- it flows out to the sea- we can get in _so_ easily, I swear-"

 

"A city on an island." Pete looked deep in thought, and the question seemed more rhetorical than anything, but Patrick nodded regardless. "It's there for the taking."

The older of the two seemed to mull it over for a few moments, all while Patrick watched his eyes shift and waited.

  
This was it. This was the best plan they had, and it was a damn good one at that.

He watched Pete. That curious spark was turning into an explosion; He was interested, and how couldn't he be? A promise of somewhere richer than England, and surrounded by water- Hell, the Franks, essentially, had nowhere to run. This was it, Patrick had figured it all out, he'd done it-

 

Pete locked his eyes to Patrick's, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

 

"What's the city called?"

 

Gotcha.

 

Patrick smiled back, only, it was broader and much more obviously excited. The feeling of what could only be satisfaction swelled up inside him, pushing remorse out of the way and pulverizing it completely.

Those painfully annoying geography lessons his father had made him take had finally paid off; He'd found a solution, a real, tangible solution.

He'd finally been able to give something back.

Patrick found Pete's eyes, inching a hand to grip one of Pete's again. Fingers laced, and eyes tethered, Patrick's jaw clenched. He couldn't think about- No, it was okay, it was gonna be fine, this was just a part of life, it was this or starving.

No regret, no remorse- Only a solution. For the country, for his friends, for _everyone_.

 

For Pete.

 

 

 

"Paris."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And fin once again!
> 
> Well, thanks for sticking around for another story- patchy updates and all (also, again like, I'm so sorry about the fucked up updates). But, as of yesterday afternoon, this set of exams are 100% over, and it's back to ur regularly scheduled programming lol.  
> But, seriously, to all of you, thanks for reading this one, and thank you so much for the patience- you're all so amazing, kind, and understanding- thank you so much again. I can't stress it enough, I wanna fuckin' yell it lol.
> 
> Well, onto the actual ending: I really hope this ending was somewhat satisfactory; I didn't just want to end it on some completely domestic note?? and I kind of wanted to imply more stuff in future (I'm not gonna write more of this au, it's just a 'more stuff is happening' implication)- so, I'm really hoping it was decent for you!
> 
> And, final thing before I let you go here, v sorry for the length here- my next story will be up tomorrow, regular, daily updates this time, exams can suck my nonexistent dick. I'm taking a break from historical aus, in order to research some stuff *wink wonk*.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy my next fic all the same, I'm super excited to write it; It'll be very humor-orientated, a lot of memes, the Shitposts™ are making a comeback, and more emojis than the emoji movie. Ironically ofc, I'm not an animal. (PS: If you've read I Know This Whole Damn City Thinks It Needs You.../or the 'superpower' fic, for ease, it's gonna be a lot like that- minus superpowers).
> 
> So, to finish this really long A/N- shit this is so long, I'm so sorry lol: Thank you all so much. You mean the world to me, I really mean that. It's amazing that people are reading this stuff, the amount of feedback is just astounding, and I really never expected to do this so much?? but you guys make it worth it for me, and thank you so much for tolerating this stuff ahaha. 
> 
> Sappy stuff over, carry on lol, and see ya tomorrow- if you wanna stick around for those Wentz Shitposts™


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